


Up the Wolves

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Christmas Dinner, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 61
Words: 206,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank gets an invite to the annual Castillo family Christmas disaster.  He uses it as an opportunity to learn more about Laurel through her family.  Laurel uses it as an opportunity to stop biting her tongue and start burning some bridges.  And enjoys it so much she considers burning everything else to the ground.</p><p>Or Laurel, her family, the RICO Act, and Christmas in Florida through Frank’s eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a few theories floating around about Laurel’s family and why Frank would think that’d mess a person up. This is my take on Laurel’s family, as well as on the dynamics of a long term Frank/Laurel relationship. It’ll probably shape up to be a pretty long one with (hopefully) regular updates.

Frank Delfino has always, in the words of his older brother Nicky, been a nosy sonuvabitch. Its what, as a kid, made him friends with half the shopkeepers in the neighborhood and enemies with the other half. It’s what got him a second and third date when a guy like him wouldn’t usually even warrant a first. It’s what’s made him pretty damn good at his job and indispensable to one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the country. And it’s also what makes him agree to spend Christmas in Palm Beach, Florida, when Frank doubts they’ve ever seen a snowflake and the idea of eating turkey in 70 degree weather makes him kind of sick.

But he’s pretty much hopelessly in love with Laurel and has been for some time, and though he knows her, knows the big things and the little things and all the other things that make her so uniquely perfect, he’s still only got an incomplete picture. He knows her, knows who she is and what she thinks and feels and likes, but he feels that that may not be enough. He has the facts, but he doesn’t have the reasons. Why Laurel hates flavored coffee, the story of the strange little scars on the fingertips of her left hand, why she claims to hate kung fu movies. So he agrees, feigning reluctance, to Christmas in Florida, in the hopes that being back in her childhood home will get Laurel to spill some of her secrets. Or, at least, that her family will be more forthcoming.

Because in the two years or so he’s been with Laurel, she’s been characteristically tight lipped about her family, to the point where Frank feels half bad that he actually knows far more than just the basics, and has since long before they got involved. He’s never said anything about investigating her for Annalise back when she was a 1L, but he thinks she probably knows. She knows Annalise was aware, and is nowhere near obtuse enough to think Frank didn’t have something to do with digging up that information. But she’s never asked about it or given him any information about her family that would imply she felt he should know any details beyond the few crumbs she herself had supplied. Instead, as far as he can tell, she treats Frank’s knowledge like she treats most everything to do with her family, by attempting to ignore it completely.

And even when she invites him to come to Florida with him over Christmas, looking at him like she’s half hoping he rejects the offer, Laurel barely tells him more than he needs to get through introductions. Which is why, as he steps out of the airport into the muggy South Florida heat, his shirt and waistcoat instantly sticking to his skin, Frank tries desperately to remember which brother Laurel had told him is picking them up, and what he’s supposed to know about that brother, trying to forget the somewhat less legitimately obtained information about Adrian and Hector Castillo.

Frank begins to head towards the curb with his bags, glancing back to ask Laurel what her brother’s car looks like when he realizes she’s not behind him. He turns around, head twisting to find her in the crowd. She’s still inside the terminal, just inside the sliding doors, practically slumped against the wall with her bags at her feet.

He gives her a look and stalks back towards her as Laurel just shrugs.

“Hector’s always running late,” she tells him grudgingly after a moment.

“Which one’s Hector again?” he asks, setting his bags down next to hers and taking her hand, giving it a brief squeeze.

“The chef,” she says after a moment. “He lives here in Miami. He’s four years older than me. Adrian is six; he’s the one that works with my dad.”

He knows this, knows all of this. Know about her sister, Vanessa, seven years older and a housewife in Texas with four kids. Knows about her oldest brother too, even though Laurel has never mentioned him and, as far as Frank can tell, never will, even though she keeps a picture of him taped to the side of the bookshelf next to her desk.

He tries to remember what else she’s told him about Hector, whether he has a family, where he works, so that maybe the conversation in the car from the airport to Laurel’s parent’s house won’t be any more awkward than it has to be. He is, after all, nearly a decade older than Hector, who, as Laurel just reminded him, is four years older than her. He is, also, an obvious blue-collar, east-coast Italian and he’s not sure what, if anything, he’ll have in common with a moneyed, Latino chef who doesn’t seem to have ever left Florida. Catholicism, he thinks wryly, and a connection to drug money.

He almost says this to Laurel, but one look at the tense cast to her jaw and the sullen slump of her shoulders makes him reconsider. That and he realizes, almost too late, that he doesn’t actually “know” the source of her father’s money; not from Laurel at least. He knows she has a pretty shitty relationship with her father, knows her family’s money is a source of not only embarrassment but of something approaching shame, and that, in two years, he can count on one hand the phone conversations she’s had with the lot of them.

But he doesn’t know why and Laurel doesn’t seem at all inclined to tell him, even now that they’re practically at her parent’s doorstep. He thinks maybe she’s just going to let him walk into this blind, which, he supposes he deserves after he sprung his family on her all that time ago.

Laurel grabs his hand again then, lacing her fingers through his. “Hector’s ok,” she tells him, not looking at him, eyes fixed firmly on her toes. “It’s the rest of them you’ll have to worry about.”

He gives her a lopsided smile. “You sure they’re not gonna be worried about me? I’m probably a bit poorer than the last boyfriend you brought around. Older too.”

The side of her mouth quirks but she still doesn’t look at him. He nudges her shoulder gently. “C’mon princess. Wanna help me case the place after dinner?”

That gets a roll of her eyes, and Frank can’t help the little swell of pride that blooms in his chest. It will never not make him grateful that he can do this, lessen the heaviness that sometimes seems to settle over her like a mantle. “I love you,” he tells her. “I don’t care about the rest of them.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes yet. “You want to skip the inevitable Castillo family Christmas disaster and just go to the Keys? I was looking at Kayak last night and we can get a room in a beachfront B&B for like $125 a night in Key West. I’ll promise you all the beach sex you want.”

He chuckles a little and smooths his thumb across hers. “As tempting as that is, I was kinda looking forward to some illicit sex in your childhood bed with your parents down the hall. Much hotter than beach sex.”

“Only if I’m willing to have it with you,” she warns, though a teasing grin slowly slides onto her face. “Plus, they converted my bedroom into a guest room like six years ago.”

“Then make that looking forward to some sad, desperate self-love in the shower. Unless you take pity on me.”

Laurel looks like she’s about to reply with something sarcastic when her phone chimes shrilly. “That’ll be Hector,” she tell him. “Inevitably running late.”

She fishes the phone from her back pocket and hands it to Frank without glancing at it. “So, more or less than half an hour behind?” She asks him with a weary edge to her voice.

Frank slides her phone open and checks the text. As she predicted, its from Hector. Its in Spanish of course, and he can’t see anything that looks like a number. He shrugs and passes it back to her. Frank watches her face as she reads the text, trying to piece together the mystery of her thoughts. “He says he’s pulling in. Blue Civic,” she sounds surprised and only a little amused. “I think this might be the closest I’ve seen Hector be to on-time in a decade.”

She slips her phone back into her pocket and hefts her bag up onto her shoulder, pushing herself slowly off of the wall. She turns and pauses, waiting for Frank to do the same.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” she asks, just as Frank sees the promised blue Civic pull up to the curb and begin blaring its horn.

He briefly considers backing out, telling her, yeah, they should just blow the whole thing off and spend the holidays fucking and getting sloshed in the Keys. But if there’s one thing Frank Delfino is, it’s a sucker for information, and a sucker for Laurel in particular. So instead he pushes himself off the wall and follows her out towards the waiting car.


	2. Chapter 2

Hector Castillo is not entirely what Frank expected. Sure, he’d dug up a picture, but that doesn't really capture the dynamics of a person. Plus, after a cursory glance at his driver’s license head shot, Frank had moved on to the more interesting aspects of Laurel’s life. So when a tall, reedy hipster in a denim shirt and tight jeans that stop about three inches from his ankles climbs out of the Civic and wraps Laurel in a hug that she steps away from just slightly too quickly to not be awkward, Frank decides he should maybe think about reevaluating his investigative techniques. Because even though Laurel tends to describe Hector as “the lesser asshole” and talks about him with more frustrated bemusement than outright animosity, he was still expecting something more Tony Montana and less _Girls_ extra.

Laurel gestures to Frank, arm outstretched to hook his elbow and bring him closer. So he does, steps closer and lets her slide her arm through his, fingertips just brushing against the skin of his forearm where he’s rolled his sleeves up. She slides herself closer to his body as she does this, in a way that Frank’s always alert mind registers as angling herself away from Hector. He thinks she does this unconsciously, and whether she does it out of possessiveness or a need for comfort, Frank doesn’t know, but he wouldn’t trade this small gesture for anything.

“Frank, Hector. Hector, Frank. Brother, boyfriend. Boyfriend, brother.” she says quickly, gesturing between the two of them with her free hand.

Frank sticks out his hand as he gives Hector the once over. His sleeves, like Frank’s, are rolled up to the elbows, and Frank can see a number of tattoos on his arms; black and white, but obviously done by someone skilled, not a quick poke and stick or drunken bad decision. His hair is darker than Laurel’s by a few shades, and curlier, though Hector has shaved it close on the sides, letting it curl only on the very crown on his head. He is wearing expensive shoes, leather loafers that Frank can tell had once cost hundreds, but now are soft and worn. Despite knowing they are siblings, Frank can see nothing of Laurel in this man and he finds himself saddened by that thought.

Understanding him begins and ends with his family; it’s why he introduced Laurel to his family nearly as soon as they became anything more than co-workers who occasionally slept together. It’s why he falls in love with Laurel all over again when he sees her trying to help his mom in the kitchen, or matching his dad drink for drink, or giving his sister advice about how to handle her shitty boss, because she becomes closer to him, becomes better able to understand him, love him, as she understands his family. But Frank is starting to realize that perhaps the same cannot be said for Laurel, that there may be no insight Hector can offer him about his sister; that despite sharing blood there may be little else they share.

But then Hector takes his hand, shakes it and throws a conspiratory grin at Laurel. “I like his beard,” he tells her.

“Yeah, me too,” Laurel quips, and something about her tone and the quick, little grin she flashes in return results in a sharp bark of laughter from Hector.

“Oh, I bet you do,” he teases, with an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows. And Frank should hate this, the way Hector has effectively cut him out of the conversation, the unjustified and almost inappropriate familiarity, but he can’t, because this is more like what he was expecting, the easy good-natured teasing he anticipates between siblings, that he is more than familiar with.

“You’re not exactly what I was expecting,” Hector tells him then, reaching down to grab the bigger of Laurel’s bags and sling it onto his shoulder.

“And what were you expecting?” Frank can’t help but ask, an edge to his voice, though he knows he should probably leave this line of questioning alone. He knows Laurel’s usual taste in men, she’s told him as much, but for some reason he wants to hear it from Hector himself.

Hector laughs, though the sound dies uncomfortably. “I mean, she hasn’t brought anyone around since she was a sophomore maybe, but she tended to bring home pretty boys back then.”

Frank’s about to respond, but Laurel beats him to the punch. “Are you saying he’s not pretty?”

Hector laughs again. “I’m saying if anyone called your dude here pretty, I think they’d get punched in the jaw, that’s what I’m saying.”

He thinks Laurel’s about to reply, though he’s not sure if she’s going to agree or defend his honor, but that’s when a uniformed airport cop steps over to them. “That your car?” he asks them, pointing to the idling Civic. “I’d advise you to move it now,” he warns without waiting for any of them to respond.

“Totally,” Hector murmurs at the cops retreating back. “C’mon. Let’s get the annual Christmas disaster started, yeah?”

Hector pops the trunk and sets their bags inside. “How long are you guys staying again?”

“Until Sunday,” Laurel tells him as she gets into the backseat without complaint. Frank flashes her a grateful smile before he wonders if leaving him shotgun was more for her benefit than his. “Any sooner would be rude.”

“And after three days in that house you start to go crazy,” Hector says as they pull out into traffic. “Did Laurel tell you what happened two years ago at Christmas dinner?” he asks Frank.

“Right, because you were there,” Laurel looks him accusingly before Frank can answer.

“Adrian and Vanessa both called me about it within an hour.” Hector explains as he merges onto the highway and starts gunning the Civic’s tiny engine. “So did Enrique, that gossipy bitch. I think Renata live tweeted it. And then dad called me to yell about it. Told me not to let you stay with me if you showed up needing a place to crash. Where’d you go anyway?”

“Jaime’s mom and I keep in touch,” Laurel replies vaguely.

“Fuckin’ Jaime, man,” he sighs with a shake of his head and a knowing grin sent Frank’s way, as though he’s in on the joke and should know exactly why Jaime is a source of amusement.

“Fuckin’ Jaime,” Laurel echoes automatically, and Frank has the vague feeling that this is a well-tread exchange between the two of them, that he has entered into the middle of a conversation that has been going on without him for some time, that the two of them are speaking in short-hand, in a code of shared experience. Which, he supposes, they are.

Hector’s voice softens, and Frank watches him glance back at Laurel in the rear-view mirror for a long moment. “You know you could’ve come stay with me.”

Frank hears sounds like Laurel shifting in her seat; he imagines she shrugs.

“I mean it, L. You need something, I’ll look out for you. I finally manned up and let him cut me off, so I can do what I want now.”

“That why you’re driving this sweet ride, Hec?” she teases. “I was wondering where the Mustang went.”

“Says the bitch who doesn't even have a car her ass is so poor,” Hector chides her right back before he turns somber. “Yeah, it got repo’d by our loving Father when I told him to go fuck himself. He wanted to invest in the restaurant, become a part owner, and we all know what that’d mean.” Hector chuckles to himself, and Frank watches Laurel in the rearview. Her face goes expressionless and he can see the hard glint in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw.

“He offered to pay for law school,” Laurel announces casually. “Told me he’d foot the bill if I went into criminal defense. I lied and told him I wanted to do family law.”

Hector’s laugh is sharp, bladed like a flashing knife. “He’s still pissed about it too. Hell, he’s still pissed you took that scholarship to Brown so he couldn’t hang the tuition over you. Force you into an MBA or something.”

“Nah,” she says dismissively. “He’s letting me back in the house this year. I think it took three years with Brown. I’m pretty sure it's cause he thinks I'm coming around on coming back here for the bar and working for him.”

“Who’s he think he’s kidding with that?” he asks rhetorically, a laugh threatening to burst from his lips. “You’re like the most stubborn person I know.”

“Elena mentioned he thinks I’m ‘maturing,’” Laurel tells him, a little thread of sarcasm creeping into her voice. “I think that’s code for starting to care about his money.”

“Hey, how’s the restaurant doing anyway?” she asks then, changing the subject. “I saw a review somewhere online that was super positive.”

“What, you have me on Google Alerts?” he teases, though there’s something in his tone that sets Frank’s teeth on edge. There’s some undercurrent of malice in Hector’s words, though Frank is not sure how or why the mood has changed so suddenly. He looks back again at Laurel, tries to meet her eyes, hoping for some hint from her as to what wire has been tripped.

Instead, she’s looking out the window, the look of sculpted disinterest she’s perfected through hours of court proceedings and client interviews now firmly set in place. Frank has always admired how open Laurel’s face is, how expressive. But only when she wants it to be. At other times she can school her face into a perfect blank mask, giving nothing away. It’s those moments, like this one, that Frank has learned to worry about. His stomach drops with unease and he can’t help but wonder what exactly Laurel’s let him walk into.


	3. Chapter 3

The three of them sit in silence for a long minute, no one making any move to ease the crackling animosity.

“What kind of restaurant do you have?” Frank asks then, trying to diffuse the tension, when he realizes neither Laurel nor Hector is going to address the sudden turn the conversation has taken.

“It’s Vietnamese-Cuban fusion.” He already knew that, but Frank still has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at that esoteric combination.

“And you’re what, head chef?” he says, hoping Laurel isn’t paying enough attention to realize he’s employing knowledge he shouldn’t actually have.

He knows that’s unlikely though, Frank has known since that first disastrous conversation that Laurel was by far one of the most observant people he’d ever met. Because she’s so quiet generally, no one notices her watching them, suspects that her mind is moving at light-speed, taking things in, processing them, calculating, making connections. Frank has even wondered, sometimes, during her more diabolical moves, whether Laurel might be a sociopath. She sees the connections between everything, makes the mental leaps that no one else can as though they’re obvious, as though Laurel is the only person with a map. Most people think that because she’s so quiet, there’s nothing going on, that a silent mouth means a silent mind. But Frank has always known that the opposite is true.

“Executive chef,” Hector confirms with a nod. The car is stopped at a light and they’re both watching Laurel in the rearview mirror as she continues to stare out at the passing traffic, giving neither of them any acknowledgment.

“You bring any food up with you? Philly’s pretty lacking in Vietnamese and Cuban.”

“No, sorry man,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “I tend to be an ass when it comes to giving the family free samples. Should’ve remembered Laurel was bringing you.”

“It’s cool, we’ll just have to try and get down to Miami before we fly out or something.”

“Speaking of,” Hector begins and half turns around in the driver’s seat to do so, trying to finally catch his sister’s attention. “You need me to get you back to the airport or what?"

“I’m not sure,” Laurel finally says, tearing herself slowly away from the window.  She runs her fingers slowly through her hair. “I’ll have to see who I can get a ride with. Or I can talk to Nessa, see when she’s leaving.”

“You’d really rather ride with Nessa and the kids?” he asks her. “Those little monsters are practically feral. At least I occasionally bathe.”

She chuckles then. “I like the little one. What’s his name? Leo. He threw up on Elena. And even Eric’s ok, I guess, even if he did try to lecture me about the Ninja Turtles for an hour.”

“Nessa says its Star Wars now, so watch out.”

“Great,” she mutters. “He’ll probably whack at my legs with a broomstick. And then lecture me about the Force, try to convert me.”

“Kids are basically religious fanatics anyway.”

“I should let him. Convert me. Do it Christmas morning right after everyone opens presents,” she leans forward and taps Frank’s shoulder lightly, as though making sure he’s paying attention. “You want to take one for the team and show off your lightsaber skills with my nephew? He can’t be any worse than Michael.”

Frank isn’t so sure about that at all. Michael, out of all his nieces and nephews, is the nicest, most docile. He’s a quiet, shy little thing, which is probably why he’s taken a shine to Laurel in the form of a hopelessly desperate crush Frank anticipates he’ll be mortified about in a year or two. He’s spent Sunday night dinners for the past seven months talking Laurel and Frank into playing pirates with him between food and desert; Laurel being repeatedly kidnapped by the dread pirate Michael, and Frank unsuccessfully coming to her rescue, before being murdered in some new and gruesome way. He’s been ordered to walk the plank more times than he can count, stabbed in every single soft, fleshy part of his body by Michael’s little plastic sword and faked dying of stab wounds so often he’s pretty sure he’s perfected the art form. Laurel too probably has a pretty good career as a telenovela actress to look forward to if law doesn’t pan out, since can weep over his lifeless body with an alarming enthusiasm. But Michael will actually stop and listen if he winds up tugging too hard on Laurel’s wrist or stabbing Frank with too much force in his kidney, will calm himself down and listen to warnings. And Frank knows from experience that’s not something your average seven year old will bother to do.

But it’s Laurel and she’s asking and it’s his first chance to make a good impression with her family; this near-middle aged tough from Fishtown, so Frank just sighs and tells her “Yeah, sure, I’ll be the Vader to his Luke.”

“Probably more the Luke to his Vader, honestly,” Laurel warns. “Hector’s right, Eric’s practically feral. He thought Shredder was the hero till I tried to tell him otherwise.”

“Shredder?!” Frank and Hector both exclaim simultaneously.

“What kind of monster is he?” Hector asks, just as Frank recovers enough to ask “Of all the villains to be into, why the hell’d he choose a lame one like Shredder?”

Frank knows without even bothering to look that Laurel’s eyes are rolling.

“Take it up with Nessa,” Laurel tells them both. “I tried to tell him Shredder is not supposed to be the hero, and he told me that I didn’t know anything. But that’s ok. I told him I knew about his crush on Maya Miyamoto, whoever she is, and that shut him up.”

“Luna tell you about her too, huh?” Hector asks with a grin. “That little blabbermouth.”

Laurel reaches between the seats to brush Frank’s arm lightly. “Luna’s my niece. She deals with having three brothers the only way she knows how.”

“She’s a six year old Gretchen Wieners; she’s full of nothing but secrets,” Hector explains, as though that will make everything clear.

Laurel laughs. “You really think pretty boy Frank here knows from _Mean Girls_?”

“If he doesn’t I say dump his ass. _Mean Girls_ is a classic.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, thanks.”

“How long have you two been dating again?” Hector asks then.

They’ve been through this enough times to have an agreed-upon answer that eliminates the murky question of what exactly they were doing while they circled around each other in a haze of sexual tension, half-truths and stupid decisions. So Frank is able to answer, “Two years, give or take,” without any kind of worry that he’s marking from a different date than Laurel. He’s always counted things from that night on the porch, but Laurel, she’s always liked things cleaner, and Frank is pretty sure she marks things from the point where they started sleeping together again that spring. But two years is close enough for both of their calculations, and neither of them have ever been big on anniversaries, so their settled estimate has worked so far.

“Wait,” Hector says, a slow, predatory grin sliding onto his face. “Wait, wait, wait. Is he one of the two guys you were dating last time. Nessa dropped that bomb on me, but never had any goddamn details. But, L, is this one of the two?”

Laurel rolls her eyes and sighs, carding her fingers through her hair, pushing it back idly. “Yes, Hector.”

“Good job, man,” Hector tells him then, the same shit eating grin still plastered to his face. “Did you guys have to fight over Laurel or anything?”

“Jesus, Hector, no!” Laurel exclaims from the backseat. “It wasn’t like that.”

And Frank’s had enough distance from the whole Kan thing that he can honestly say, “Seriously, it wasn’t anything like that,” without feeling like he’s lying.

Because at the time, it definitely felt like he was fighting Kan. Fighting him through Laurel, trying to prove to her that he was better in bed, better at understanding her, a better fit in her life, fifteen years and shady connections and all. He probably would’ve set himself on fire for her if she’d asked, if she’d told him Kan had refused.

But now he can realize that what he was feeling for her had nothing to do with Kan, and everything to do with feeling that he wasn’t good enough for Laurel, that she could see in his face everything he felt and feared, that the petrifying feeling of vertigo in the pit of his stomach wasn’t jealousy but terror at realizing he was falling in love with the much younger, much smarter, hopelessly flawed daughter of a man powerful enough and ruthless enough to have him killed before breakfast without much more than a second thought. He’s still kind of terrified by his love for Laurel, but now it’s a good kind of terror, and he thinks maybe she’s got the same lurch in her stomach for him.

And so he wedges his arm back through the too small space between the door and his seat, wrenches his shoulder in a way he’ll probably be regretting later, and hopes that Laurel will just take his hand. Just briefly, so he can set his shoulder right again, but he needs that physical reassurance from her that they're on the same page, that she chose him, chooses him every day, and that she knows he gets it. She wraps her small hand around his fingers, squeezing slightly, and he catches the tiny smile she sends him in the side mirror.

If he were anyone else, if she were anyone else, he’d probably hate how tactile they are. They’re rarely openly affectionate in public; public-adjacent, maybe, and often enough at that, but rarely in public. Instead, they’re always giving each other little touches; holding hands, brushing his hand against her lower back as he passes, wrapping her hand on his bicep as they sit next to each other in court, letting her body lean against his if they happen to wind up standing next to each other. If they were anyone else, he’d hate it, but instead the little spike of worry eases as Laurel drops his hand, and he can refocus on Hector, who has proceeded to grill them.

“So who was the other dude, L?” he’s asking. “And how was his facial hair game?”

“Pretty average,” Laurel deadpans.

Hector gives Frank a knowing look. “Be straight with me man, it was shit wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t great,” Frank agrees.

“I wasn’t with Kan for his facial hair,” Laurel says defensively.

“Hold up,” Hector says. “His name was Kan?”

“Yeah.”

And Frank is confused too, because he’s not sure why the guy’s name matters either.

“Holy shit, L. Please, please tell me you didn’t pass up the opportunity to scream out ‘Khaaaaaan!’ in bed at least one.”

And Frank can’t help it, he bursts out laughing at Hector’s Shatner impression, imagining Laurel yelling that out in the middle of what he always imagined, probably unfairly, was pretty mediocre sex.

Laurel gives them both a look she usually reserves for Asher or his cousin Tony who’s always trying to talk Laurel into a threesome with him and his stripper girlfriend. “You’re both idiots,” she tells them, though the hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“That may be true, but that didn’t answer my question, Laurel,” Hector tells her sternly, that same unexpected tension suddenly creeping back into his voice. “Don’t they teach you anything in law school? Like that you should always make your witness answer the question.”

“Thanks, Mr. Law and Order, Esquire, for the truly excellent legal advice,” she says, trying to keep her words light. But again, Frank can hear the note of caution humming like a current underneath.

“Still not answering, L,” he says, before gives Frank this strange mocking smile. “But not answering is your fucking forte isn’t it Laurel?”

Laurel had begun to say something, but goes completely silent then, so silent Frank is sure she stops breathing. His eyes flick up to the mirror in time to see nearly all the color drain from her face. He can’t tell in the moving car, but he thinks she’s shaking.

He has no idea what to do, has completely lost the thread on this one, but Hector is still grinning like he’s told the funniest fucking joke, and Laurel’s still frozen in the backseat. And if they weren’t in a goddamn car he’d probably throw a punch at her brother before taking Laurel far, far away, get a couple of shots in her and wait until she stops doing a damn fine impression of a terrified fucking rabbit.

So he does the next best thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Laurel beats him to it though. Just as Frank’s getting ready to make some obviously ridiculous excuse about needing to piss or wanting some food so that Hector will stop the fucking car and let them all out, Laurel beats him to the punch. He shouldn’t be as surprised as he is, Laurel’s more than capable of handling herself. But Frank’s not used to seeing her this shook up, either.

“Stop the car,” she demands, though her words are soft and even Frank isn’t sure she’s not asking a question. Then, more forcefully, but still calm, controlled. “Stop the fucking car, Hector.”

And Frank doesn’t expect it at all, but Hector complies. He changes lanes, puts his flashers on and pulls to the side of the highway.

“Get out,” she commands once the car has stopped and the three of them sit silently for a moment as the headlights of the passing traffic flick through the car.

“Me?” Hector asks. “Or him?”

Laurel switches to Spanish then, says something in that same low, icy voice and opens the door. She steps out onto the shoulder and waits for Hector to do the same. He follows her obligingly when traffic allows, not sparing a glance at Frank as he goes.

Frank watches them in the side mirror, standing close together a little distance from the back bumper. He can’t hear Laurel, she’s speaking too low to be heard over the passing cars, and he doubts she’s using English anyway, but he can recognize a threat when he sees one. He doesn't think he’s ever seen her this upset, Laurel’s one to bury things deep, to maintain her composure so that she can make the problem go away. But this, whatever this is, it’s something that's stolen Laurel’s preternatural calm, her ability to solve this problem, and Frank can tell she’s teetering on the edge of either screaming or crying, though he’s not entirely sure which.

He sees the similarities in their posture then, the first time he’s seen anything that might suggest they’re family. Laurel and Hector are both hunched, shoulders curving in as though they’re both trying to make themselves as small, as unnoticed as possible. Hector has his arms wrapped around his body, hugging his elbows in a gesture he is all too familiar with from so much time with Laurel. They both look punch drunk, like they’re barely holding themselves upright, battered and bruised.

There is no conversation here, it’s just Laurel. She tells Hector whatever it is she needs to, and gives him a long, searching look. Frank thinks she might be doing an excellent attempt at channeling Annalise at her most fearsome, most commanding. Frank feels a brief flash of pride tinged with a healthy dose of fear and respect at Laurel’s ability to, if not solve this problem, at least bury it deep again. He marvels at whatever reserves of strength she pulls from to make herself into this person and not the shaking, silent, terrified thing she was in the car. Hector looks at her for a long moment after she stops speaking and nods, once. Frank knows what this means, and quickly fishes his phone out of his pocket so it's not quite so obvious he was watching.

Just as he’s pulling up his email, eyes fixed on the screen as though it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen in his damn life, Hector wrenches the driver’s side door open. He sits down heavily beside Frank, crossing his arms and refusing to look at him.

“She wants you now, I guess,” Hector tells him Frank can read nothing in his voice that offers any clues as to what just happened.

Frank lets out a long sigh, runs a hand through his beard, then goes to join Laurel.

She’s standing against the bumper, still hunched, now hugging her elbows. Whatever anger she had when talking to Hector is gone now, replaced with what seems to Frank to be a deep weariness.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him softly as he approaches.

He goes to take hold of her elbows with his hands, pull her close, but he sees her body tense, flinch away from him. So he waits, he’s good at waiting for Laurel. “What for?” he asks, matching her tone.

She tries to laugh, but it comes out choked and her eyes slide down, away from him. “I dunno, for bringing you here. For blowing up at him. For letting him get to me. For having something he can get to me about at all.”

“All of the above?” he prods gently.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Frank asks after a long minute, finally catching Laurel’s eyes.

She shakes her head minutely. “I can’t.”

He nods. “Ok.” And the thing is, it actually is. He doesn’t need to know what caused Laurel to freeze, to react with more shock and fear than when she was involved in a murder. He doesn’t want to know. The things that are off-limits to her are taboo to him because he loves her more than he loves the possibility of what he will discover. Frank’s got to admit, it’s probably a first for him, nosy bastard that he is. “But, if you ever decide you can, that’s ok too. I’m gonna love you whatever.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment. “I know. I love you too.”

“You still wanna do this?” he asks her then.

“No. But we already said we would.”

Frank gives her a small, encouraging smile. “I didn’t say shit. Give them a call in a few hours, tell them I made us miss the flight, or got trashed or wound up in the hospital. We’ll go to the Keys like you want.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she says, and manages to match his smile. And then she steps forward, into his space, and drops her arms from around her body.

“Does that mean I’m allowed to hold you now?”

Her smile grows a little wider and she nods.

Frank waits for her to close the distance between them, before he wraps her in a tight hug, cocooning her against his chest, letting her tuck her head underneath his chin. He strokes his hands over her back, feels her sigh deeply.

“You gotta know babe,” he tells her, because it’s true, he feels like he has to let her know; that it’s vital and important to both of them that she know this, here, now. “I’ve got your back this weekend. No matter what happens, no matter what shit anyone says, I’m with you.”

“I love you,” she tells him again. “And I’m sorry. I’m going to be saying sorry a lot this week, I think.”

“Not to me.”

“You’re the only one I care about hurting, though.”

His lips quirk against her hair. “If that were true, we wouldn’t be here.”

She hums into his chest then pulls back. He sees her take a sharp intake of breath and her shoulders roll back, pulling herself taller, giving herself strength by pretending she has it. “We should go.”

“You ready?”

“Not really,” she admits, and she runs her teeth over the edge of her left thumb like she does when she's especially nervous or uncomfortable. “But I don’t want Hector to know that.”

“He won’t suspect a thing,” Frank tells her, taking her hand and stepping towards the front of the car. He half worries Laurel will balk, but she steps forward as well and they both get into the car.

Hector turns around to look at Laurel as she gets in, his expression unreadable. “Elena just called,” he announces, as though nothing has happened, as though they hadn't just spent the last fifteen minutes parked on the side of the road. “She wanted an update. Sounded pretty blitzed already. Gotta love Castillo Christmas traditions.”

Laurel’s laugh is quick and weary, but he and Hector share a smile at the sound.

Whatever just happened, whatever pact Hector might have broken, whatever it was that went completely over Frank’s head so that he’s not entirely sure what it was Hector did at all, it seems to be over, forgotten, buried deep by the two of them. He knows all too well, thinks Laurel does too, that buried things don't always stay that way, but Frank thinks that sometimes that’s all you can do. Put off the inevitable until it’s something you have the strength to face head on.

“Wanna get on with it then?” Hector asks, a note of caution in his voice.

“Yeah, ok. Might as well help Elena polish off all the tequila in the greater Palm Beach area.”

“Speaking of,” Hector adds. “She asked us to stop by the liquor store before we get to the house. She’s probably past the point where she can drive, I guess.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “That goes without saying,” she says with a sharp frown and, just like that, the last of the tension seems to have eased.

 

 

* * *

 

An hour later, and Frank is standing in Laurel’s parents’ foyer with a case of tequila is his arms and his bag slung across his chest. Laurel and Hector had a brief, but intense, discussion as they pulled into the ridiculously long driveway before deciding that Frank, in an effort to make a good impression with their mother, should carry the booze.

Hector is striding through the house, already out of sight down the hall, calling out to his parents.

Laurel gives him a look and shrugs, so Frank stays put. It’s probably a good idea he does, because the house is fucking huge. The foyer is two stories, a giant double staircase up to the second floor and a couple of hallways that lead who knows where. There are two rooms off the foyer by the front door that, from where Frank’s standing, both look like living rooms. But, he decides, they probably have fancy names and slightly different functions. And then there’s the long hallway where Hector had vanished, where Frank now hears the murmur of voices and the clip of approaching feet.

And then Hector appears, arm around a thin, brittle looking blonde woman. She turns, goes up on her toes, and places a kiss against Hector’s temple, patting his cheek with one immaculately manicured hand. “Go find your father, would you,” she tells him. “Let him know your sister’s here.”

Hector smiles at his mother, eyes softening in a way Frank has yet to see when Hector looks at Laurel. He heads back down the hallway, leaving them alone with Laurel’s mom.

“Hey, Elena,” Laurel says after a moment. Frank hates how tired, how cautious she sounds, as though expecting bad news.

“Laurel, darling, we were expecting you ages ago,” her mother tells her, managing to make it sound like a criticism, like she’s disappointed. She comes over to Laurel, on what Frank thinks are only slightly unsteady legs, and places her hands delicately on Laurel’s shoulders in some bizarre mockery of a hug. Her lips purse and kiss the air in the vague direction of Laurel’s cheeks. Laurel, Frank notes, remains stiff, not even turning her head towards her mother’s air kisses. “Have you lost weight, dear?” she asks then, not sounding entirely interested in the answer.

“Probably not,” is Laurel’s automatic response, still sounding tired and a little skittish with an undercurrent of something that Frank decides is sarcasm. “Elena, this is Frank, my boyfriend. And the tequila.”

“Frank!” Elena says as she turns toward him, in what he suspects she thinks comes across as enthusiastic warmth, but which instead, sounds stiff and hollow to his ears. “Lovely to finally meet you. Laurel’s told us so much about you.” She takes his hand quickly, and presses it between her own.

He doesn’t have to, he already knows the answer, but he glances over at Laurel quickly, raising his eyebrows at her. Her mouth quirks in what might be a smile and might be a grimace, and she shakes her head minutely in answer to his silent question as she rolls her eyes at him.

“Likewise,” Frank says, trying not to sound sarcastic and suspecting he’s failed horribly when Laurel gives a little snort of laughter.

“And what is it you do Frank?” Elena asks him with a little laugh, eyeing his shirt, tie and waistcoat, which, he sees now, is ridiculous overkill in this place where t-shirts and sport-coats are practically the uniform.

“I work for Laurel’s old boss,” he says vaguely, unexpectedly self-conscious about his lack of a law degree.

“That woman, the professor?”

“That’d be her,” Frank confirms.

“How lovely,” Elena tells him insincerely, giving Laurel an unreadable look. “Now, let’s get you to the kitchen so you can set that case down. Laurel’s father is around here somewhere. I’m sure he’s eager to meet you as well.” She pats Frank’s arm gently as she says this, making it sound only mostly like a threat.

Elena turns and heads back the way she came, expecting the two of them to follow behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And after much hype, this chapter introduces Laurel's dad...hopefully he comes across as a little scary but also totally normal.

“Give me your bag,” Laurel tells him, after the sound of Elena’s heels have become little more than soft clicks on the marble. “We can just drop it here.”

They have a minor struggle, trying to get Frank’s bag off his shoulder without dropping the booze. Laurel grabs the bag, as Frank shifts the case to his right hand, settling most of it’s weight on his hip. Laurel tries to lift the strap of his bag over his head, but she’s too short, and the bag’s too heavy, and it gets stuck somewhere near his neck, digging uncomfortably into his throat. Without even thinking, Frank ducks down then, and Laurel grabs his bag from the bottom, and together they get it over his head and onto the floor. They’re both grinning and a quick chuckle escapes from Frank’s lips. “Thanks, babe,” he tells her, watching her shy little grin grow wider.

She steps to him, into his space with a hungry look in her eyes, and the air between them shifts and ignites. The last thing on Frank’s mind is getting the tequila to the kitchen. He keeps the case secured between his right arm and his side, his left hand going to her waist drawing Laurel the rest of the way to him, her body flush against his. Their lips meet and he kisses her eagerly, tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. Her hands fist in his hair and they’re fumbling backwards, and Frank’s grazing his teeth against her lower lip when the sound of footsteps sets them careening apart again.

Laurel’s breath is ragged, face flushed, and Frank tries not to smirk despite himself.

A woman in a legit fucking maid’s uniform is standing a few feet away, trying to look discreet, though there’s the hint of a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. Frank startles, looks to Laurel, raising what he hopes comes across as an incredulous eyebrow. All this woman lacks is one of those stupid little white hats. But Laurel’s not paying attention to him, a wide grin he doesn’t think he’s seen all day has split her face.

“Paola!” she exclaims, before the two of them begin conversing in quick, hushed Spanish. Paola reaches out to Laurel, takes her hand for a long moment as she gives her what can only be described as an appraising look. She tugs at Laurel’s hand then, and the older woman wraps and am quickly around Laurel’s shoulder, kissing her cheek. Laurel’s laugh is light, and Frank thrills at the sound. He is left wishing Laurel’s mom had been the one to do this as he sees the way some of the tension leaves her body. Laurel maneuvers them closer to him then, it seems in an attempt to include him, though they continue in Spanish. He thinks he catches his name once or twice, and when they both look over at him he gives an awkward little wave. He should’ve known Laurel would be closer to the maid than to her own mother, she’s all but said they have exactly nothing in common. But her mother, for all her coldness and judgement, is not the one Laurel, or Frank for that matter, need to be worried about.

And then they hear voices returning from down the hall. Laurel and Paola both step back from each other in what must be a practiced move. Paola gestures to Frank for the case of tequila and he hands it over, guilt at allowing her to take the heavy case shooting through him. Laurel gives him a look, eyes hard, as he hesitates. But this is her world, and she knows the rules, and if she’s telling him to hand over the damn case, that’s what he’s gonna do, guilt be damned.

Laurel’s mother strides down the hall then, an older man trailing behind her. Laurel’s dad, Frank assumes, though again, there is little resemblance between them. Laurel’s father is average height, average build, with Hector’s dark, curling hair and quick, calculating eyes. He wears his grey suit like a weapon, the smile on his face a hidden knife. There is something dangerous, predatory, in this otherwise normal looking man, something that hints at barely controlled anger, a violence only temporarily at bay, like a sheathed sword. Frank only half suspects he thinks this because of what he already knows about Jorge Castillo, thinks he’d probably be able to read it in his stance, his look anyway, be able to recognize the kindred spirit of another used to getting what they want through fists and blood and fear. Frank hopes Jorge can’t read the same brutishness in his own face, can’t see the bodies Frank has left trailing behind him, so he schools his face into something resembling indifference.

“ _Mija_ ,” Laurel’s dad calls out when he gets close. His eyes, though, flick to Frank, giving him a long, piercing look, before turning back to his daughter. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” she answers shortly, as he wraps her in a tight hug. Frank watches Laurel’s hands begin to rise, before she seems to catch herself and still them before they can reciprocate the hug. Frank feels something in his heart crack and splinter.

“And you, you’re doing well?” he speaks with only the hint of an accent, the kind that makes people sit up and take notice, just to make sure they’re not imagining it.

“I’m fine too, dad,” she tells him as she steps away, and something like a smile slips onto her face. “How are you and Elena doing?”

Jorge ignores her. “And your grades?”

“Dad,” she says, and there’s a little note of warning in her voice. “Don’t worry about all that. Come meet Frank.” Laurel takes his arm, and directs his attention back to Frank, still standing there like an idiot.

Jorge’s eyes narrow again, assessing Frank. “This is Frank, then?” he asks her, and that simple question is full of meaning, and the look on his face is a mixture of derision and calculation. “This is who you’re dating, Laurel?”

“No, he’s just some guy I found at the airport who looked good holding my bags.” Frank tries his best not to snicker, smooths the smirk from his face. Jorge, smiles indulgently, though the thread of menace remains. “Frank,” he says, holding his hand out for Frank to shake.

He takes it, and feels like he’s being sized up, feels like he’s sixteen again and trying to impress his prom date’s dad, worried if he seemed too eager or too cool he’d get taken out back and shot. Except this time, there’s a very real possibility it will happen.

“So, first time in Palm Beach, Frank?” Jorge asks him, and there’s a clear undercurrent of judgement that Frank grits his teeth and tries to ignore. He expects he’s about five minutes away from being called townie trash. He just hopes they say it in Spanish so he doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, I’m more of a cold weather guy, so it’s my first time in Florida, actually."

“Well _mija_ ,” he says to Laurel then, his tone friendly, but his eyes steely and cold. “You’ll have to be sure to show Frank all the sites while you’re here. This may be his only time in Florida.”

Laurel’s jaw tightens. “Only if it's my last.” “And Frank, what is it you do?” Jorge ignores her comment and turns his attention back to Frank. The question is not friendly, innocent though it may be, and Frank is half-tempted to ignore it altogether, or just make something up.

“I work for a law professor,” he tries to make it sound as uninteresting as he can.

“Are you a lawyer, then?”

“No,” he says with what he hopes is a self-deprecating chuckle. “Not smart enough for that. I’ll leave the lawyering to Laurel.”

“Well, what do you do for this law professor if you’re not a lawyer?” Laurel’s dad is giving him a searching, calculating look. Frank things he might know the answer already and is just seeing how long it takes before Frank comes out with it. “Surely you’re not a paralegal?”

“No, not the paralegal. I’m the investigator.”

Jorge smiles, a wolf who has caught his prey, all bloody jaws and sharp, flashing teeth. “Ah, an investigator. That, I know what it means. You’re the fix-it man.”

Frank nods, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. He glances at Laurel, hoping Jorge won’t follow his gaze, knowing he will. He wants to tell her he’s sorry. He should’ve known. Just as he recognizes Jorge, he is recognized in turn. The worst parts of him are being drawn, inexorably, towards the surface. “I’m the fix-it man,” he confirms.

“I wasn’t sure about you,” Jorge tells him then, grin splitting his face wider. “When my wife told me Laurel was bringing someone. I don’t always like the men Laurel dates, when I actually get to meet the men she dates. But you, I think I like you.”

The weight in his stomach grows heavier and Frank feels both feverish and nauseous. He can’t bring himself to look over at Laurel, so he forces himself to match Jorge’s smile. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says, insincerely.

“You and I, I think we’ll have to talk later. You can help me with a problem I’ve been having.”

“Anything for Laurel. Or her family,” Frank says, biting out the lie.

“Good,” Jorge says, and if anything his grin gets wider, the predatory look in his eyes not abating. “I like this kind of commitment in a man.” He doesn’t even spare the hint of a glance at Laurel as he says this, just keeps his eyes fixed on Frank, measuring him.

“Hey, Dad,” Laurel says then, only a slight catch in her voice, as she steps into the firing line, turning Jorge's focus back to her. “Can we get Frank settled in before you talk business?”

“Of course, _mija_ ,” he says indulgently. “Set your bags down and then come join us for dinner. Paola or Juana will come get you when it’s ready.”

His words are more of a command than anything. Laurel smiles anyway, though stiffly, and allows her father to wrap her in another hug. Again, Frank catches her desire to return it, wishes she would. “It’s good to see you, Laurel. You should not go so long without visiting your mother and I.”

Laurel lets this statement go without comment, though he sees her eyes close, just briefly. She grabs Frank’s hand, leading him in the direction of their bags. “We’ll see you in a bit, dad. Elena.”


	6. Chapter 6

She keeps their hands joined as she leads him upstairs and down one of the long, long hallways before stopping at the farthest bedroom from the staircase. “Everyone else usually takes the bedrooms down that way,” Laurel explains, indicating the opposite hallway, as she nudges the door open. “And this one has an ensuite bathroom.”

Well Frank’s never stayed in a five star hotel, but he thinks this is probably what its like. The room, the bed, the tv, everything is huge and screams money. The walls are this rich, creamy color and the comforter is puffed like an over-large cake on the queen sized bed. The room has a bank of floor-to ceiling windows, and the gauzy curtains are open to reveal a fucking fantastic view of the immaculate lawn, and beyond that, sand and sea, going hazy now in the darkness. He doesn’t want to know the thread-count on the sheets because he’s confident it will be a number he wasn’t even aware existed. Laurel drops her bags just inside the door and Frank does the same, before going to the bed and falling backwards on it, bringing Laurel and their joined hands with him. She lies beside him on the bed and they’re both silent for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. The bed is just as comfortable as he’s expecting, if not more, and Frank sinks into it, letting it swallow him up, cocoon him.

“Promise me something,” Laurel says then, voice soft. “If he asks you to do anything, tell him no.”

Frank thinks about making a joke, asking if that means he can refuse to pass her dad the gravy at Christmas dinner, but he knows Laurel, knows her moods, her tones, and he knows she’s serious, knows she’s worried about something.

“Course I promise,” he tells her. And he means it.

“Thank you,” she says before going silent beside him. But it’s a heavy silence, and Frank knows more is coming. Laurel’s simply thinking, taking her time, because whatever she’s about to say, she thinks it’s important enough to wait to have right. “He’s not a good person. He ruins everything he touches. And I don’t want him doing that to you.”

“Hey,” he says and turns on his side towards her, finding her eyes shining with what might be tears. He reaches over and gently smoothes his thumb under her eye, across her cheek. “He did ok with you, you’re perfect.”

“No,” she tells him, and there’s a vehemence he usually only sees in Laurel when she’s working on a case, talking about the law. “I’m not. He ruined me too. And you’re the best thing in my life Frank, I can’t let him do that to you.”

“Look,” he begins. Their faces are inches away and he’s practically drowning in Laurel, sinking into the blue of her eyes. All he can think is how much he loves her. “I don’t know what you’re worried about, but I know you are. And that’s enough for me. I won’t let anything happen, not if I can help it. And I know you won’t let anything happen to me. So you’ll have my back, and I’ll have your back, and we’ll get through this together, ok? And if we have to, we’ll do it again next Christmas, get through that together too.”

“Yeah,” Laurel agrees, though she doesn’t sound at all convinced. “Or we can just spend Christmases with your awesome and functional family from now on, huh?”

“Hey, you and me, we can figure anything out,” he says, letting a smug grin settle on his face. “Besides, I’m not some defenseless little bitch. If it comes down to it, I can handle things.”

Her eyes close tight, and Frank knows he’s messed up. “That’s not…” she begins, but doesn’t go on.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he tells her, leaning his forehead to rest lightly against hers. He can feel her breath against his nose, his mouth, his cheeks. “For whatever I’m not getting here. But I’ll follow your lead on this, promise. And we’ll be fine.”

“Don’t treat him like a problem to be solved, Frank. Please. He’s a bomb, and you’re thinking of him like something you can diffuse. You have to just run like hell instead.”

“Then why the fuck are we here, Laurel?” he asks, but there’s no heat behind his words. He’s just confused, and worried. Laurel’s a fixer like him, she’s always trying to set things right, get them running smoothly again. She’s probably better at it even, more subtle, because when she’s done you can’t even tell there was a problem at all. Frank’s a hammer, she’s a scalpel. But if she’s telling him not to bother, well that’s an entirely unexpected reaction. “If all we can do is run, then why’d we come down here at all?”

“Because I fucking love them, alright,” the words seem to burst out of her mouth like bombs, like Laurel wanted more than anything not to say them, not to even think them. “They’re horrible people. But they’re my family, Frank. And I hate them because I can’t just walk away from them, stop loving them,” she says with this desperate little laugh that Frank would literally kill to never hear again.

“Ok,” he says. “Ok.” There’s nothing else he can say.

“Ok,” she repeats with a weak, wet laugh. Frank kisses her then, because even now he loves her, and he has no idea what else to do.

“So they’re shit people,” he says when they separate. “And you love them because they’re your family. But they’re not mine, and I fucking love you, but I don’t owe them a damn thing. I can keep my distance, because the only reason I’d want to be on their good side is if it helped me get in your pants.”

“You wanna get in my pants, huh?” she asks, with a slow, teasing smile and a roll of her eyes. Her eyes are still glassy with tears, but her gaze is steady. Whatever it was that had her spooked, Laurel’s either figured it out or buried it deep again.

“Course I wanna get in your pants, princess,” he tells her frankly. “Do you have any idea how much of my time I spend thinking about getting in your pants?” Laurel leans forward then, closing that last little distance between them and kisses him. It starts out slow, their lips barely touching, before Laurel seems to think better of it and pushes Frank onto his back. She straddles his hips, lips going to suck at the pulse point on his neck as her fingers fumble with his tie and the buttons on his waistcoat and for a moment all he knows is want.

He thinks about helping her, but then his hands find the smooth skin of her lower back as they slip beneath her top, and Frank decides he’d much rather focus on her clothes instead. Laurel must feel the same way, because she momentarily abandons her efforts on his tie and makes quick work of the buttons on her shirt.

“Laurel,” he breathes as her shirt falls open, because all other words escape him and all he knows is her. One of his hands tangles in her hair as the other continues to travel up her back to unhook the clasp of her bra.

She leans down and kisses him, roughly, their teeth clashing together for a moment, before her tongue tangles with his. Frank lets his now free hand move over her breast so that she gasps into his mouth. The sound travels straight to his dick and he wants to hear it over and over until there’s no other sound. He moves his mouth to her breast then, grazing first his teeth, then tongue over the hard peak of her nipple.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her nails scratching painfully over his scalp, urging him closer. And he was lying, _that_ , the sound of her desperate, breathy curses is the sound he’s pretty sure he can’t live without.

He’s trying to get her to replicate the sound, his teeth on her other breast, his beard grazing against the soft skin, when she pulls back. Frank’d be lying if he said that something like a whine doesn’t force it’s way from his lips as she does.

But then her hands are at his belt, pulling down his zipper and she’s taking him in hand. He tries not to buck into her fist like a goddamn teenager, but he rarely has much control where Laurel is concerned, especially not when she’s stroking him slow and languid like she wants to savor it as much as he does. He grows almost painfully hard in her hand and he can focus on nothing but the glide of her fingers against him.

But Frank basically just gave her the ride or die speech not ten minutes before, and if they’re a team then they’re gonna act like it and he’s not gonna let her just get him off because she’s worried he’s gonna bail or freak out if she doesn’t. So he stills her hand and flips their positions so that she’s beneath him, bracketing his hips with her own.

“Hey,” he says as he kisses her, and he can feel her hands between their bodies, working at the zipper of her pants. “Lemme help.”

Between the two of them they manage to get Laurel’s pants off and thrown somewhere in the direction of the floor. Frank slips his hand between her legs, feeling her wet for him already. He chuckles into her neck and begins moving his hand, stroking his thumb over her clit. She hisses in pleasure, the stuttering of her hips urging him on. His lips go to her collarbone, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there, then letting his tongue soothe the heated flesh.

“So,” she says, voice low and breathy and challenging. “You’re in my pants. You gonna do something about it?”

And Frank’s never been one to back down from a challenge, so he shoves his pants and boxers the rest of the way down his hips and positions himself at her entrance, the head of his cock just brushing against the wetness he finds there. He’s pretty sure they both moan at the feeling, torturous and teasing. Laurel’s hips stutter forward, trying to take him in, but Frank pulls back slightly, drawing things out, even though everything within him wants to be inside her.

“Please,” she pleads, the sound reedy and taut and breathless and just so fucking desperate. “Please, Frank.” And he’d probably never admit this, even to Laurel herself, but sometimes he thinks he could come just from her voice. He can’t fucking help it and he’s not sure he wants to.

“Beg me again,” he tells her, as he teases her again, rubbing himself against her clit for half a moment.

She must be desperate for him, because she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t try to drag things out, try to get he upper hand. “God, Frank, please, just fuck me,” Laurel’s hands are digging into his shoulders, and the prick of pain alongside his desire is enough to set off flashes behind his eyes.

He’s not sure either of them can last much longer. He gives up on trying when she uses one hand on the back of his neck to bring his lips down to hers. Frank buries himself inside her before he even has a chance to think beyond his desire. He’s pretty sure they both moan at the feeling of him deep inside her, filling her completely.

Laurel begins to move her hips, canting up into him as her hands on his shoulders urge him deeper, urge him on. His hand drifts down to her clit again and, if he had any brain cells left, Frank would smirk at her breathy little pants against his neck. He speeds up his thrusts to match hers, knowing she’s close. She comes with a high, keening cry, walls fluttering around him. He lasts a few more desperate thrusts before he spills himself inside her.

“How was that for doing something?” he asks, breathing ragged, as he falls back to the bed beside her.

Laurel laughs, and kisses his jaw, nuzzling her cheek against his bearded one, curling her body into his side, arm across his chest to rest by his heart. “That was certainly something,” she agrees.

“This wasn’t your childhood bedroom, was it?” he says, hand stroking through her damp hair.

She laughs again, lightly. “No. It wasn’t.”

“Good,” Frank says decisively. “Then we’ll just have to fuck there next.”

“I think Hector usually stays there,” she warns, as though that settles the matter. “I can’t tell if it’s to piss me off or because he’s just stupid.”

“And when’s that ever stopped us; fucking in other people’s rooms?”

“Jesus, Frank. Do you have a list or something?”

“Course I have a list,” he tells her. “It’s basically every available surface. But, you probably don’t know this, but I get off on fucking to Justin Timberlake posters.”

Laurel rolls her eyes and her nose crinkles. Frank leans over on protesting muscles and kisses the tip of her nose. The smile that breaks out on her face makes his heart stutter in his chest. She threads her hand into the hair at the base of his neck and kisses him, soft and slow. “Sorry to say that was never really my scene, even before Elena redecorated, but I’ll keep that in mind next time I need a present for you,” she tells him after they break apart.

“Are you saying you already got me my Christmas present?” he asks teasingly.

Laurel hums noncommittally.

“It didn’t look like you had enough space left in your bag for anything good, am I gonna be hopelessly disappointed Christmas morning?”

“Hey,” she teases. “I packed a couple of swimsuits I think you’ll definitely enjoy unwrapping.”

“Yeah?” he asks eagerly.

And if he hadn’t just fucked her senseless, that’d probably be all it’d take for him. But that’s no reason Laurel has to miss out, and it’s clear that’s where her mind is going. So, he props himself up on his elbow and gives her a predatory grin. He lets his other hand trail down to rest by her hip, stroking along the soft skin there. He sees her pupils dilate, and he knows he’s got her. Frank shifts down the bed then, resting his chin on her hipbones, letting his breath fan against her, taking in the heady scent of her, of him, of them.

“Ok then,” he tells her, and he knows the grin he gives her as he moves to kiss her inner thigh can only be described as ‘shit-eating’. “I expect you to describe, in detail, exactly what amazingly hot, skimpy numbers you packed just so you could turn me on and drive me crazy in front of your family. And you’re gonna do it while I eat you out. Spare no detail. And no stopping until you come.”

She laughs, but the sound catches and turns into something a hell of a lot hotter and more like a moan as Frank moves his mouth over her then, sucking her clit and nipping his teeth over the bundle of nerves. He glances up at her, head thrown back on the bed, chest and neck and breasts already flushed.

“Hey, princess,” he says, punctuating his words with more nips against her center that earn him little, gasping cries. “You gotta hold up your end of the bargain. Or I won’t hold up mine. So tell me. What. Did. You. Pack?”


	7. Chapter 7

They make it down to dinner eventually, after Laurel spends ten minutes trying to tame her hair into something a little less wild before giving up with a defeated shrug.

“If they didn't realize what we were doing up here before they will now,” is all she says as she tries a final time to smooth the sex from her hair.

Frank sees some of the tension return to her in degrees, slowly but steadily. Even before they leave the room her face settles into a frown so deep it appears carved from stone, and by the time they're padding down the steps the line of her shoulders is so taut Frank knows she'll be in pain later, trying to knead out the kinks in her back with long slow rolls of her neck.

He finds himself belatedly realizing that he had been hoping the gulf between Laurel and her family was one exacerbated by actual physical distance; that when back in their presence the distance would melt away. It is slowly dawning on Frank that perhaps he has underestimated the scars Laurel carries from her family; that he has been looking at things through the lens of his own strange and tumultuous, but ultimately functional family, where they may scream and fight but will always shake things off and get over it. He thinks maybe that’s not always something you can do and that it was probably naïve of him to think otherwise.

When they make it to, well, he guesses it must be called a dining room or something, even though its practically palatial and seems a bit like overkill for just Laurel and her family, Frank is pretty sure no one even flinches in acknowledgment of their arrival. Frank’s steps falter, but Laurel reaches behind her instinctively to grasp his hand and propel him along with her, not breaking her stride. There are two new individuals now, a man and a woman, both a little older than Laurel, but still neither of them even turn towards the sounds of his and Laurel’s entrance. This is nothing like the warm crush of voices and hands and bodies that has always greeted him when he walks into his parents’ kitchen and a spasm of pain and guilt and sadness arcs through him. He wants to tell Laurel he loves her; that she’s brilliant and beautiful and perfect; that without her he just doesn’t see the point.

He never wants to hesitate to tell her those things. Instead he just squeezes her hand gently, hoping he can convey everything he’s feeling with just touch. She looks back at him briefly, just a glance, but their eyes meet and hers soften and Frank thinks maybe he’s come close when she gives his fingers a return squeeze.

They sit, silently, Laurel indicating with a little nod of her head where Frank’s to sit, and begin to dish up food. Frank tries to catch the thread of the conversation; something about a new store, he thinks, someone they know is opening. The consensus seems to be that failure is inevitable. He’s thinking about stuffing his face with rice and beans and some kind of crispy white-ish fish and mango slaw to disguise the fact that he’s essentially invisible right now, but instead slows his pace and lets himself observe the new additions.

The man is obviously Laurel’s brother Adrian, “the success” as Laurel calls him, though Frank can never tell whether she’s being sarcastic or genuine, the one who works for, or possibly with, their father. His hair and eyes might be a touch lighter than Laurel’s, his hair cropped close in the style of every white shoe lawyer, and i-banker, and stock broker, so clean cut he looks unreal. Frank is immediately suspicious, as he always has been of people to whom wealth comes too easily, sits naturally on their shoulders like they are deserving of it.

Frank’s not rich, however much Annalise has made sure he’s comfortable, but he wears his status as Fishtown boy made good like a weight around his neck, knowing he’ll never really feel like he’s left; his speech, his posture, his whole worldview betraying his origins. But Adrian’s started from the top, has never known anything else, and his belief that his place is owed to him is written across his whole person, from his casual little smirk to the white starched collar of his dress shirt.

Hector, he thinks, has the look of a rich man brought low, not yet used to frugality. But Laurel; he’s never been sure about her. He’s always known her family was wealthy beyond his ability to even comprehend, but she rarely acts like someone with money. At first he thought it was because she had so much it wasn’t even a concept for her, that to her it was ever-present like air.

But then he noticed her habit of calling out privilege in others, Asher in particular, of pointing out casual blindness to their advantages and he realized that maybe Laurel was hyper-aware of wealth instead. She certainly behaves in her everyday life like someone without it, though Frank has occasionally tried to point out that’s not the case. She had two roommates in a walkup only a few degrees better than Wes’ flop-house before she bit the bullet and agreed to move in with him, fretted for months about the bill when she broke her wrist slipping on a patch of black ice downtown and has a habit Frank absolutely hates of buying twenty packs of Top Ramen when its on sale that she only winds up eating the next time she gets sick.

He wishes, for the thousandth time, that he could solve the perpetual mystery of Laurel, fit the mismatched puzzle pieces into something resembling a pattern. He thinks he’d love her regardless, even if there were no surprises left to him.

The woman seated to Adrian’s right is blonde like Laurel’s mother, and just as polished, though perhaps less intoxicated. There’s something bright and bubbly about her that has always screamed southern WASP to Frank, and he thinks he’s probably not wrong. She’s just as well-dressed as Elena, in a silvery green sheath dress that seems overkill for the situation. Even her nails match her dress.

The conversation turns to Hector’s restaurant, Adrian turning the focus to his brother. “How long’s your place been open Hec?” he asks. “Eighteen months or so?”

“Yeah,” Hector says cautiously, barely lifting his eyes from his plate. “Next month’ll be a year and a half.”

“And what percentage of restaurants fail in the first three years?” Jorge asks casually, picking up the subject, like this isn’t a barbed question, designed not only to wound but to insult.

“We’re actually doing pretty good business,” Hector mumbles, barely loud enough for Frank to hear him at the opposite end of the table. He looks like he’ll never be comfortable again, his eyes are sliding in every direction but towards his father, and Frank watches his hands slide slowly from the table into his lap where Frank’s sure he’s digging his nails into his palms. “Just got some new investors who are really supportive of the concept.”

Frank catches Laurel’s eyes, giving her a questioning look. Her face is impassive, studiously casual. She turns away from him, fixes her eyes on Hector though there’s an unfocused quality to her stare that makes him think she’s not really comprehending anything at all. Frank watches as she brings her left hand unconsciously to her mouth, thumbnail running over the edge of her teeth for a minute before she rubs the thick little scar on the pad of her thumb slowly against her lower lip. He hates these nervous little gestures of hers, these self-soothing tactics she thinks no one notices, but Frank does.

“That’s great, Hec,” Adrian tells him, though it’s clear from his tone the sentiment is insincere and largely patronizing. “But Cuban food is hugely overplayed in Miami and after the initial buzz of a new place wears off, what have you done to ensure the business remains solid, especially because of the failure rate of new restaurants?”

Frank, still watching Hector, catches the beseeching look he flashes Laurel when Adrian begins addressing him again. It has the tenor of begging and Frank feels more than hears Laurel sigh next to him, realizes she’s going to do something stupid, because Laurel’s always good for taking up a lost cause. Frank wonders then at the strange, petty, and ever-shifting nature of familial alliances, wonders what it is that compels Laurel to put herself in what seems guaranteed to be the firing line for this brother he’s not sure deserves it.

“Actually,” Laurel says then, a challenge in her voice. “The failure rate drops drastically after the first year. Hector’s doing pretty well, in fact.”

“Hey, kid,” Adrian greets her casually, turning to Laurel as though she had only just appeared. “Dad said you were around somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Laurel says cautiously after a moment, though Frank sees her school her features into something passably friendly. “I wanted to get Frank settled. It’s been a long day.”

Adrian gives a hum of what might be agreement, then stands and reaches across the table then, hand outstretched to Frank. “Frank, huh? Nice to meet you.”

Frank stands as well, takes his hand. “You too,” he says, then turns to Adrian’s wife with a cocky smirk, keeping his hand extended. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. Old habits die hard, and at this point Laurel just rolls her eyes and teases him about it later. He doubts Adrian has the same tolerance. “And you must be Laurel’s sister-in-law,” he says, taking her hand as she nods slightly in confirmation. “I’m Frank, the boyfriend.”

“Colleen,” she says shortly and Frank almost laughs despite himself. He’d known about Adrian’s wife since the beginning, but the first time Laurel mentioned “the collie,” he still thought it was the family dog or something, even though he himself nicknamed Wes “the puppy.” “Nice to meet you.”

“Frank,” Adrian begins. “My dad says you’re an investigator.”

“I am,” he confirms, glancing at Laurel. She doesn’t look particularly upset at this line of questioning, but Frank decides to follow her lead anyway and not offer up too much information.

“And what does an investigator do?” he asks, a sneer creeping into his voice. “Is that something you have to go to school for?”

“No,” Frank tell him. “It’s not.” He knows he’s smart enough in his own way, quick, observant, ruthless even, but Frank’s always had a sore spot where his education is concerned; the assumption that because of the way he talks, acts, grew up, he’s nothing more than a stupid thug, a hired goon. He had some college, stupidly dropped out even though he was doing well, and that decision has always haunted him because it seems to confirm the worst in him, that he really can’t be anything but muscle. And Adrian seems to know this, wants to poke at the soft spot like at a rotten tooth. He wants to ask Adrian if glorified drug dealer is something you do have to go to school for, but quiets himself.

Laurel places her hand on his knee and just rests it there and he feels his heart rate slow slightly. As long as she loves him, the rest of them can go hang.


	8. Chapter 8

Frank covers Laurel’s hand on his knee with his own, and she gives him a reassuring smile.

“What did you study then, Frank?” Laurel’s mom asks, picking up the thread of the conversation. There’s the same undercurrent of derision to her words, though her tone is friendly. Frank is beginning to understand why Laurel is so skittish of other people, so distrustful of their motives. Nothing here is what it seems on the surface and no one is saying what they really mean. Frank always thought that was a singularly WASPy thing to do, but he’s beginning to think perhaps it might be a moneyed thing instead.

“I was studying English until I dropped out,” he says, deciding he should just come out with it, should embrace the inevitable judgment of his Philly origins and his stupid teenage decisions. “Luckily, it hasn’t bit me in the ass yet.”

Jorge is the only one who laughs, looking positively delighted at Frank. His eyes twinkle with mirth and that same cruel calculation. He raises his wine glass as though toasting Frank, using his forefinger to point at Frank emphatically. “This,” he tells his assembled children. “This is a smart man. He doesn’t need a fancy degree to get what he wants. He goes and gets it. This is a man I could use.”

“I thought you liked that I was getting a fancy law degree, dad?” Laurel cuts in, voice soft but tone hard, trying to turn his attention from Frank. Jesus, Frank wants to tell her, stop trying to take bullets for other people. “Wanted me to use it to help the business.”

“Because you’ll be a professional, _mija_. That’s a skill, not some useless piece of paper. And,” he adds, turning that cruel look back to Laurel. “Does this mean you’re considering coming back to help out?”

“No,” she tells him, firmly. “It doesn’t. And I’m not.”

“Not even considering it? Laurel, what have I always told you about your options?”

Laurel takes a long sip of her wine, smoothes her thumb across Frank’s knee once, twice. “I’m staying in Pennsylvania,” she declares to the table. “Hopefully in Philly. I’ve already signed up for the bar exam there.”

“And that can’t be changed?” Jorge asks. “Nonsense. You want to take Florida instead, I’ll pay for it.”

“I don’t want your money,” she practically spits, anger evident in her flashing eyes and the slash of her frown. “You can’t just buy me off. And you should quit trying. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Laurel,” her father says, and there’s a warning in his voice, low and deadly. Frank thinks of the growl of a large and vicious animal; more felt than actually heard but no less lethal.

Laurel returns his stare for a long moment, unblinking, before turning back to her food.

Jorge smiles triumphantly. “Frank,” he says then, deciding to bask in his victory. “If Laurel comes back here, you must think about joining her. I am always in need of men like you.”

“Thanks,” Frank says insincerely, trying on a casual chuckle and a grin. “But I kind of have my whole life up in Philly. I doubt my mom would let me leave either; she’s still pretty protective of her kids. Nearly faked a heart attack when she thought my sister was gonna move to Connecticut.”

“Surely you would do it for Laurel?” Frank is asked pointedly. And Frank curses himself, he’d walked into that one. And now there’s no good way to make clear that, no, he’s not moving to fucking Florida, because _Laurel_ is not moving to fucking Florida, and he’d rather get kneecapped than find himself working for her dad with all that entails.

So instead he grins again. “Well, I’d certainly want to be wherever she was,” he offers, placing his hand on top of Laurel’s smaller one on his knee.

“Very good,” Jorge tells him, as though that settles the matter. “You and I, Frank, we’ll talk later.”

Frank hopes very much that isn’t the case.

But apparently Adrian is not done with Laurel yet, decides to go for a second round. “Hec said you two just got in,” he asks her. “Did you have to work most of the day?”

“We did. And you?”

He gives her a look that seems to be affection mixed with condescension and ignores her question. “Where is it you’re working now? Not with that woman still?”

Frank bristles, beginning to suspect that ‘that woman’ is being used a term of derision for Annalise, not being employed because they don’t remember her name.

“No. Not with her.”

“Where then, kid?” he asks. “Hopefully you’re with a firm a little larger than that one woman show?”

Her eyes flick to Frank and she shakes her head minutely, urging him to stay out of that fight. When Laurel answers she’s keeping her tone too even, and too tight, like she’s treading a dangerous line and cannot stray without facing danger. “I’m interning with the Public Defender’s office this year.”

He cannot help but catch Adrian’s eye roll. “Laurel,” He says slowly, like he’s talking to someone else’s dull but persistent child. “This is your last semester of law school, you need to be making connections, not screwing around deluding yourself into thinking you’re going to save the world.”

“That’s where I was all summer too,” she tells him, a challenge in her voice.

And Frank knows how much she loves the PD’s office, how she’s hoping they’ll make an offer for when she graduates. The rest of the Keating Five, even Wes, have all given her shit about not going into private practice, going where the money is good and the cases will be better, more prestigious. But Frank knows that’s not where Laurel wants to be, not what makes her happy, even though he wouldn’t mind the extra cash a big law job would give them. Laurel’s one of the few people who won’t think they’re ‘settling’ if they take a job as a PD, it’s truly where she wants to be; messy, hopeless cases and long hours and no pay and all. And she will defend that decision to the death, because it’s one she believes in with everything she is; that it’s not just people who can pay that deserve her.

Adrian hums again, a too-wide smile slipping onto his face. He takes a long sip of wine but the grin remains when he sets the glass down. He looks to their father, expectation in his eyes. But Jorge is looking at Laurel intently, something cruel in his eyes. Frank thinks that he looks like he wants to hurt her.

He looks to Adrian’s wife, hoping that as another outsider to this family, she will give something away as to whether this is normal or veering again into dangerous territory. Frank suspects though, it may be both. Her face is impassive and she glances down briefly at her phone. Ok, Frank thinks. Normal behavior but also something she is turned off by, wants to avoid.

  
He glances at Hector out of the corner of his eye, way down at the other end of the large table. Hector looks positively miserable, even though up till this point he’s been rendered as invisible as Laurel. He’s intently studying something on his plate, turning it over and over with his fork, refusing to look up, no matter what goes on elsewhere at the table. His shoulders are hunched, like he’s trying to sink down into his chair, let the floor swallow him up.

“Laurel, when are you going to stop feeling guilty about the idea of making money and start putting law school to good use with a real firm?” her father asks accusingly then, and Frank watches Adrian’s wife look up, eyes flicking to Jorge and then Laurel, and then skitter away, back down to her phone. Hector, if anything, turns his laser focus more intently to his plate, as if looking up, acknowledging his family in any way, will turn him back into the target, draw him into the firing line. Frank wishes Hector had half the courage Laurel did, that he would step the fuck up and defend her the way she defended him, save her at the cost of himself.

Frank knows Laurel’s upset; her face blanches for half a second and he feels her fingers curl tight against his knee. “That’s not it at all,” she tells her father gently, smoothing her features until not even Frank can tell that his words have affected her. “I want to help people. The PD’s office is where I can do it.”

“You can do that anywhere,” Jorge insists with a scoff. “Wherever you practice, you will help people; that’s the purpose of a lawyer, no?”

Elena chimes in from the other side of the table then, clearly picking up a well-trodden topic. Laurel’s smile as she turns toward her mother is as hard and cold as ice. “And honestly darling, your father and I just can’t understand why you insist on playing the martyr, working for pennies when you can do so much better.”

“It’s what I want to do. I think it’s pretty simple to understand that,” she says lightly, as though that settles the matter, ignoring the dark looks everyone at the table is now sending her.

“If you came and worked for your father, you could help people _and_ make money, darling. Why don't you think more about that?” her mother asks.

“It’s not about the money for me; that's not what's important.”

And now Jorge jumps back into the conversation, voice dark. “You only think that because you have never had to worry about money, never struggled to support yourself with too little,” he tells her condescendingly.

Laurel bristles next to him, an edge that wasn't there a second before creeping into her voice. Frank’s not sure that anyone else can hear it though, because her face remains a perfect blank mask, neutral and unfeeling. “I think we both know that isn't true. I've struggled plenty since I turned eighteen. You may not have been around to see most of it, and I may be doing alright now, but that doesn't mean I didn’t.”

And ok, that's news to Frank. He’s a little shocked, but thinks it makes sense, pieces clicking into place. That Laurel comes from money, but doesn't have any. He honestly can’t believe that was something he missed, all this time, the reality being obvious in hindsight. But he always felt that looking into her bank account was a bridge too far, always expected to find monthly deposits from her father in ridiculously large amounts, so he never bothered looking for them. But apparently those deposits were something he invented in his own mind, refusing to see that Laurel’s frugality wasn’t an affectation, her attempts to be a normal law student, or to sync her spending habits with Frank’s; no, they were necessary all along. And every time he grumbled no so silently because she reminded him they didn't have money for a weekend in Atlantic City, or to go with the larger TV, she wasn’t simply refusing to spend her father’s money on things she felt were silly or unimportant, it was really because the money wasn’t there. Frank feels like a fucking idiot, like maybe he doesn't really deserve his job if he was so blind to the truth, to his own fucking girlfriend.

Jorge scoffs at Laurel’s words, Elena taking a long sip of wine to disguise her ironic smile, and Frank catches Adrian's heavy eye-roll. “You always knew you had something to fall back on if you truly struggled,” Jorge tells her. “That is not true adversity, _mija_ , knowing that there is a safety net if you fail. That is a delusion.”

“You may have thought I’d come back if things got tough,” Laurel says viciously. “But I meant what I said. I was never going to take another penny from you.”

“I do not understand you, Laurel,” Jorge says with something like a disappointed frown, though Frank can hear the anger still simmering under the surface, ready to boil over. “I don't understand what you have against wealth, against money. Why you make yourself suffer because you think it is evil or dirty or whatever silly notion you have.”

She sighs, all the anger draining out of her in a rush, leaving her looking to Frank like she’s just tired, defeated. “I don't have anything against money, dad. I just know there are so many more important things.”

“I don't think you truly mean that,” he tells her, once again letting a victorious smile slip onto his face, turning his face cruel.  “I don't think you would have gone to law school if you meant that. You would have become a nun, or a nurse. You do not become a lawyer unless money is at least part of your aim. A large part.”

Laurel merely shrugs, seemingly accepting the status quo, that there will be no convincing her family of her intentions. When she speaks, her words are tinged with what Frank decides is sadness, disappointment, as though she has been let down by these people again and again, but still lets herself hope for something different. “I didn't go to law school for money. I went because I want to help people. I still do,” she sighs, sips her wine and turns a stiff smile towards the table. “But anyway, enough about law school. I just finished four finals and a paper and I want to hear about what Roman has told you about the Marlins’ front office drama.”

Frank has little expectation that anyone will let the matter go that easily, but somehow they do. He supposes he should thank Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig or Jackie Robinson or some other baseball god that it remains the great American pastime, surpassing even lectures and guilt-trips as the favored topic of conversation among estranged families at holiday dinners.


	9. Chapter 9

They escape soon after that, because while Laurel has made great strides in getting Frank to switch his allegiance from the hopeless Phillies to the equally hopeless Marlins, the conversation quickly switches to people the various Castillos know in the front office, and Frank loses interest. Laurel too, seems bored, though it’s clear from her brothers’ attempts to include her that she has at least passing familiarity with most of the alluded-to individuals. So they both make excuses about being tired and slip out of the dining room.

Frank expects they’ll return to the guest room, but instead Laurel turns the other way down the hallway and leads him in the direction of the back of the house. He’s quickly lost as they pass through hallways and rooms, all marble and cream and opulent. He initially tries to keep a running map of some kind to mark each room; cherry wood billiard table, light teal couch, inset shelving, wall-length bar, life-sized marble statue of some Greek goddess, but after the third room with a seemingly identical couch Frank gives up.

They pass through a spacious but deserted kitchen, darkened aside from a single light over the deep steel sink, all creamy marble and chrome appliances. Laurel stops at one of the two double doored fridges, pulling it open. The last three shelves are stocked with nothing but cases of beer, the top with what looks to be an assortment of champagnes. Frank chuckles to himself and goes to grab one of the more expensive looking bottles, but Laurel stops him with a light slap at his wrist and an exaggerated look of accusation.

Instead, she steps around him, brushing against his chest as she does. She pushes a few bottles aside, peering into the back of the fridge as though searching for something. After a moment she pulls out a large heavy wine bottle, a triumphant grin on her face. She hands it to Frank, then roots around again before pulling out another, identical bottle.

“It’s Lambic beer. Much better than champagne.” she tells him, grinning. “One of my dad’s stranger ways to blow his money.”

She grabs a bottle opener from a drawer next to the sink, handing it to Frank. And then Laurel leads him to a side door, tucked against the wall by the kitchen. He suspects it’s the service entrance and wonders idly if she’s taking him out back to light up and get tipsy. He’s never known her to have much time for weed, but after the horror that was that dinner, he wouldn’t hold it against her if she needed some pot to shake off the lingering tension.

That scenario is seeming more and more likely when Laurel pauses, placing her hand against his chest to stop him from heading through the door.

“Take off your shoes,” she instructs him, toeing off her own. He complies after a moment, removing his socks as well. He hasn’t been paying much attention to the windows, beyond them is only darkness, but when Laurel leads him through the side door, he gasps.

She has indeed lead him through a service entrance, out onto the side of the house. From where they are, Frank can see the whole yard, lit up with the warm yellow of patio lights. It’s massive, like everything the Castillos seem to own, probably the size of a damn football field. The grass is perfectly manicured and looks more like a closely trimmed shag carpet than anything, though Frank has got to admit, the pool and its collection of marble Greek statues are a little excessive. There are some strategically placed palm trees, drooping low over the pool to keep it warm but shaded. He thinks she’s going to take him there, down to the pool, until the shifting of her body turns his attention out past the house.

“Shit, princess,” he breathes. Because there, maybe a hundred yards straight ahead, is the ocean. There’s a little concrete wall directly in front of them, maybe two feet high and after that its nothing but dark sand and the gentle break of the waves.

“Right?” she asks rhetorically, and there’s a lightness in her voice Frank isn’t sure he’s heard since they got on the plane. “It’s basically the only reason to come down here.”

“Sign me up,” he agrees. “That dinner was fucking excruciating, but if free beer and a view like this is the price I have to pay, I’m in.”

“Speaking of,” she laughs and reaches into Frank’s left pocket, pulling out the bottle opener from where he’d stashed it. She discards the foil and pops the cork on one of the bottles and holds it out to him. She sets the other down on the concrete wall as Frank takes a swig of the already sweating beer.

“Lambic, huh?” he says after taking a couple of experimental sips. “This isn’t bad at all. How’d I get my hands on some?”

“Lambic in general or this in particular?” she asks, watching him with a smirk on her lips. “Because Lambic you can find anywhere. This, though, we’re probably better off just stealing some from my dad.”

“He’s not gonna notice?” Frank asks, not quite sure that Jorge Castillo will view Laurel essentially raiding his liquor cabinet as something that doesn’t warrant a reaction.

He feels like a fucking teenager in this house, he realizes, walking on eggshells and sneaking around and waiting for his inevitable screw up to land him an interview with Palm Beach’s finest. He thinks that’s because Laurel herself is beyond uncomfortable; every moment in that house seems like she’s about to walk into some kind of trap her family’s set for her, walking a minefield with the only map what she can read on their faces.

He can tell she’s shook up, he’s gotten good at reading her little tells, even though her face can school itself into a perfect porcelain mask when she chooses. But her words since they touched down in Miami have gotten short, clipped, like they do when she’s uncomfortable, trying to make herself invisible, to fade into the woodwork as quickly as she can. She's been playing with the scars on her fingertips, running her other fingers over them, bringing them to her mouth to chew on like a hangnail. And she’s been twisting her wrists, her fingers in these repetitive little nervous patterns, contorting them when she thinks no one can notice; under the table, close to her body, but Frank notices. He’s always noticing Laurel. He’d make her the star around which he orbited if he could.

Laurel scoffs at him then, knocking his shoulder lightly with hers and sending his attention back to her, now. “He’s unlikely to notice if one or five bottles go missing. Or I’ll just say it was Hector. He’s always jacking things to cook with.”

“Nice to have a brother you can blame food-related disappearances on,” Frank comments, knowing she won’t, passing her the bottle and watching as she brings it to her lips. There’s something surprisingly intimate about sharing a bottle like this, Frank thinks, something that smacks of shared secrets and furtive glances and trust in the darkness. It’s something he wouldn’t want to do with anyone but Laurel. He wants to kiss her until he tastes the beer on her lips, until she’s breathless and laughing.

But before he can, Laurel grabs his fingers and trips ahead onto the sand, propelling him with her. As their feet touch the still warm sand they both laugh, Laurel’s sounding just this side of a giggle, and Frank lets his toes slide into the soft, grainy waves of it, wishing he could let himself sink into her laugh instead. Laurel drops his wrist to let him roll up the legs of his trousers, knowing how particular Frank is about his clothes. He shoots her a grateful look even though he knows it won’t make much difference. She gives him a quick, mocking salute with the bottle, before taking a quick sip, then passes it back to him.

They walk together, side by side, shoulders occasionally jostling for space as they trade the beer back and forth, to the edge of the water. Beyond them is nothing but darkness; Frank can’t even see the flickering lights of a ship far out on the water. The only lights are the stars and from the houses along the shore. He takes her hand, tugging her close and hooking his arm over her shoulders.

“You able to find your way back?” he asks, motioning with his head down the beach. “Because I’m relying on you here, babe.”

“What?” she asks him sarcastically. “You’re gonna have trouble tracking down my parents’ giant gaudy mansion among all the other giant gaudy mansions?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” he says gesturing up and down the beach to the equally palatial mansions flanking Laurel’s, all in a fake mission style like the Castillo’s, all with pools and palms and ridiculous ornamentation.

She gives half a giggle again, grabbing the bottle back from Frank’s hand. “Palm Beach is so weird. I always forget until I’m back.”

“It’s nothing like Philly, that’s for sure,” Frank says with a shrug as they begin walking down the beach. “Nothing like the shore either.”

Laurel hums her agreement. “I like the shore better.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen enough of Palm Beach to judge,” he tells her. “Though I guess your family’s place is pretty weird.”

“Understatement of the year,” she makes a little scoffing noise. “Look at it. There’s all this beautiful beach and no one out.”

“And how exactly,” he asks her. “Is that a bad thing?”

He kisses her then, like he’d wanted to for what has seemed like hours, quick and hungry. He does taste the beer on her lips, so he kisses her again, letting his tongue slide past her teeth until it meets hers and tangles.

When they break apart Laurel is breathless, laughing, and Frank thinks that maybe, despite everything, the day was a pretty good one.

Laurel sinks to the ground then, small smile on her face and a quick laugh on her lips. “You do have a point there.”

Frank passes her the bottle as he follows her to the sand, then takes it back for a long pull once he’s settled himself. He tries to ignore how dirty his slacks will be later, how he’ll probably have to get them dry-cleaned as soon as they get back to Philly. He really is kind of a bitch about his clothes. Laurel leans her body against his, head resting on his shoulder, dragging her hand through the sand and letting the grains slowly spill from her fingers.

“I’m really glad you’re here with me, Frank,” she says towards the darkness of the water, hooking her arm through his, knotting their fingers together tightly until he's not sure just by sight where either of them begins or ends, her breath fanning warm against his neck.

“There’s nowhere else I’d wanna be,” he tells her. And he means it. There’s nothing else for him to say.


	10. Chapter 10

Frank wakes slowly, letting himself adjust to consciousness by degrees. He can feel sun on his face, his shoulder blades; feels it behind his eyes, a red-orange tinge that is just dull enough to not be painful. He is cocooned in something soft and airy, lighter than the blankets he’s used to, but thicker too. Out beyond what he begins to realize is his left hand he can feel something warm, something soft. He lets his fingers curl into it slightly, stroke against it. Laurel, his waking mind tells him, an arm.

Their bodies very rarely fit together in sleep; Laurel’s a restless sleeper, constantly jerking and twitching in a way that made Frank’s few aborted attempts at spooning an abject disaster. Now he knows to give her space at night, lets her kick and flail without injury to himself, and yet, he often finds a small few inches of their bodies connected in the morning, as though they crave each other even in sleep. So Frank is not surprised that his hand has sought out the inside of her elbow and he can feel one of her shins against his knee.

He strokes his fingers once more against her arm, judging the depth of her sleep. Laurel snuffles slightly, burrowing further into the covers, curling tighter into herself with a sigh. Frank pulls his arm back and just watches her for a moment. Even in sleep Laurel is serious. Her brow is furrowed, deep creases lining the space between her eyes and she’s always frowning deeply, as though thinking hard about something she can’t quite find the answer to. The light from the windows has settled over her, filtering through the tousled strands of her hair, setting her dark hair bursting with golden light, turning her skin creamy and rich. Her hair is falling over her face, spilling over her shoulders. She’s so beautiful it sets an ache blooming in his chest. Sometimes it still shocks him how much he loves her.

Frank pushes himself up on his elbow, rolls out of bed, trying not to jostle Laurel too much. In addition to a flailer, Laurel sleeps like she has a hair-trigger, waking at what seems to Frank like any sound or motion. He thinks sometimes that what makes her so observant during the day, so laser focused on the small, minute details, is something that can’t be turned off even in sleep. She’s so attuned to her surroundings that any sound, any movement, can make her jolt awake when it pierces the thin barrier of her unconsciousness.

But Frank’s gotten skilled at silence, at moving slow and fluid, so he sits up in bed, brings his feet to the floor without any reaction from Laurel, her breathing slow and even. He thinks its still pretty early; the light filtering in from the windows has that heavy, syrupy quality that comes with the first few hours after dawn.

He looks at his phone on the nightstand, checking the time. 8:23. He runs a hand through his beard slowly. Great. He’d liked to have slept longer, but he’s used to getting up much earlier and his body can’t shut old habits down even when he knows he’s on vacation. Laurel, on the other hand, will be asleep for a while yet, if she can. She spends half her life running on caffeine and sheer, grim will-power and when she has time to sleep in, she crashes. He thinks after last night she fucking deserves it.

But he’s in her family’s home, and he doesn’t really want to strike out on his own into the snake pit of Castillos but he needs coffee if he wants to be on his game to face them the rest of the day. He considers holding out until Laurel wakes, but can’t find a good reason to do so beyond pure self-preservation. He’s pretty sure rich people don’t wake up before 10 anyway, but he’s not sure that will apply to Laurel’s dad. He just hopes he can find the kitchen again and doesn’t wander around the mansion for an hour.

He gets out of bed, throwing on a grey wife-beater and a pair of loose shorts over his boxers. He figures if he’s striking out in search of coffee and risking getting waylaid by Jorge for that promised chat, he should at least have some damn clothes on. He’ll just pretend he was intending to go for a run, Frank decides, if anyone tries to chat him up. Then he’ll sneak away for an hour or two until Laurel’s up. Nothing cowardly about that, no sir.

Frank leans back over the bed, brushing Laurel’s hair back from her face. He kisses her neck softly, breathing her in.

She makes a small noise of complaint. “Frank?” she slurs, and he grins at her barely understandable words. “Where ya goin’?”

“Hey, don’t worry,” he tells her, placing another kiss against her neck, beard rasping against soft, sweet space behind her ear. “I’m just getting coffee. Go back to sleep.”

“Get bagels,” she murmurs, curling tighter. “Don’ forget the card.”

He grins, smoothing his hand against the span of her back. Laurel’s still asleep, he realizes, rambling about the ‘buy 12 get one free card’ at their local bagel place that she swears he’s always forgetting. He’s gotta admit, he often does. “Got it, don’t worry.”

She huffs and her nose crinkles, then she falls silent.

“Love you,” he calls out softly, slipping his phone into his pocket as he pads to the door.

He’s not really expecting an answer, and doesn’t get one, so he ducks his head out the door of their room cautiously. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, nor any noise coming from anywhere in earshot. But Frank knows that’s practically meaningless, unlike his parents’ place where every single sound carries to every last corner, this house is huge enough that you can’t hear a thing unless its right next to you. Someone could be standing at the bottom of the stairs and he probably would have no idea. Hell, someone could be standing at the opposite end of the hall and he’s not sure he’d know.

Still, he knows he needs to leave the room, and he can’t rely on Laurel to be with him 24/7, so he takes a deep breath and steps out into the hall. He closes the door as gently as he can, and he tells himself it’s entirely for Laurel’s sake. He makes it down to the ground floor easily enough and knows he’s supposed to follow the back hallway…somewhere…but he couldn’t answer the question of where exactly if he had a gun to his head.

But, Frank’s always been a slippery, resourceful bastard, and he knows the side door Laurel led him out of the night before leads to the kitchen, knows that its on the side of the house nearest the pool when you’re facing the beach. So he shrugs to himself, hopes it’s unlocked, and tugs open the heavy front door, holds his breath that he doesn’t set off some paranoid rich person security alarm. There’s silence, so Frank steps outside.

It’s not even 8:30 and Frank can already tell it’s going to be hot. He hates it. The gentle breeze coming off the water helps some, but he’s used to temperatures hovering around freezing this time of year and his body has already broken out into a thin sheen of sweat.

Frank circles the house until he reaches the back, finds what he thinks must be the service entrance into the kitchen. He tries the door, unlocked thankfully, and pulls it open a crack, listening for voices or the sounds of cooking. Unfortunately, the side door is also located right by the giant AC unit, who’s humming prevents him from hearing much of what might be going on in the kitchen. Screw it, he thinks, he needs coffee, and maybe he’ll see if there’s any bagels in the fridge, bring some back to Laurel even without the damn loyalty card.

Hector is standing at the stove in nothing but plaid red pajama pants, hair mussed and chest bare, intently tending three pans. Frank takes a step back, thinks about turning around and not having to deal with Hector, but, aside from thinking he’s a coward and a bit of a dick, can’t find any reason to retreat.

Hector looks up as Frank enters, nodding slightly before turning his focus back to his pans.

Frank returns his nod but then ignores him in favor of tracking down the coffee pot. He finds something that looks like its straight out of a coffee house, with so many buttons and levers he’s half sure he could use it to do his taxes.

He turns, finds Hector looking at him and inclines his head toward the espresso machine. “Any idea how to run that thing?” he asks, figuring Hector will have as good a chance as anyone at understanding the machine since its his job to know food.

Hector grins, jostles one of his pans. “None at all.”

Frank tries to suppress his frustrated growl as he takes a closer look at the machine. Time is not making it any more obvious how it should be operated.

“But,” Hector tells him then, a teasing grin on his face, one eyebrow raised. “Paola keeps a Mr. Coffee stashed in a back cupboard for when Laurel’s home. She’s got a terrible palate for coffee; hates the fancy stuff. She thinks her Maxwell House stash is a secret but I’ve already brewed a pot.”

“So not so terrible a palate then,” Frank says rhetorically, feeling compelled to defend even Laurel’s admittedly terrible taste in coffee, especially after she came to Hector’s rescue the night before.

Frank’s joked with her that her preference in coffee should be a war crime; the more like jet fuel or toxic sludge, the more she likes it. He initially thought it was some kind of blue-collar affectation of Laurel’s; liking terrible cheap coffee because she thought it would make her less noticeably wealthy. But in the two and a half years he’s known her, Frank has realized she just genuinely likes terrible coffee.

Hector’s grin grows wider. “I guess not.” He shrugs. “Dad gets this fancy Columbian stuff for the machine. It’s fucking awful.”

He goes back to his pans, adding a handful of what looks like chopped onions to one of the pans then quickly stirring the contents. And Frank continues to watch him.

“Mugs?” Frank asks, when Hector seems to be a little less frantic in his cooking.

“Right,” he turns and points to a cabinet. “In there,” another quick gesture. “And coffee is there.”

Frank goes to the indicated cabinet, grabbing a large porcelain mug. He pours himself some coffee and leans back against the counter as he takes a sip. Hector’s right, it’s pretty terrible. But it’s coffee and that’s good enough for him right now. He adds some sugar from the nearby bowl. He makes a note to thank Laurel for her wretched taste in coffee because he’s pretty sure he’d still be fighting with the espresso machine.

“What’re you cooking?” he asks Hector, trying to make conversation. He’s not sure he wants to, not sure he trusts Hector, not sure Hector even remotely cares for Laurel beyond how she can help him.

“Hash browns, bacon, crepes,” he says, pointing to each of the three pans in turn. “I cook when I can’t sleep.” He casually flips a crepe using only the pan. Frank has to admit he’s a little impressed.

“Good thing you made it a career,” he quips, almost meanly, then corrects himself. “Good thing for everyone else too.”

“Good thing,” Hector agrees, then his voice does that thing that Frank is starting to notice, dropping in pitch like he’s taking Frank into his confidence, sharing some in-joke, that has so far spelled only things Frank hasn’t wanted to know. “Did you know Laurel used to have terrible insomnia? She would do origami for hours until she could fall asleep. Paper crafts are so much less useful than food.”

“Origami?” he asks.

He does not mention that Laurel still suffers from bouts of sleeplessness that send her prowling their apartment, bleary eyed and law books in hand. He first thought she was just an obsessive studier like the rest of Middleton’s law school population, but it soon dawned on him that even when the rest of the Keating 5 crashed, Laurel would often remain awake, doggedly plodding on, not because she was more dedicated to the case, but because she simply wasn’t able to sleep.

“Yeah, I know. Fucking origami,” Hector laughs then, giving Frank a conspiratorial grin, as if they’re sharing some funny little secret about Laurel. Frank half wants to chuck his mug at Hector’s head, because its not fucking funny that Laurel sometimes stays up for 24, 36 hours at a time because her mind won’t let her rest. “She made so many fucking paper cranes I think she half filled a moving box. Dad finally got so annoyed he paid Adrian and me to burn some of them when she was like thirteen. A fire in July in Florida was fucking ridiculous, but dad's always been one making sure you can't miss his point.”

Frank grips the mug tighter in his hands, placing both his palms hard against the still hot ceramic, focusing on the dull throb of pain in his palms and trying to ignore the building desire to do something stupid and violent. Instead, he grits his teeth so hard it hurts and fakes a smile he thinks is probably more like a grimace. “Must be nice that people just eat your food instead of throwing it away,” he says pointedly.

Hector just laughs, ignores whatever barb he thinks Frank might be throwing at him. “It’s not a genetic thing, in case you were wondering,” he tells Frank, with that strange little mix of pointed nonchalance he’s starting to realize Hector employs when he wants Frank to know something, but wants to pretend it just casually slipped out. He turns his back to Frank to flip a crepe a final time, and then slides it into the waiting pile. He goes to a bowl, slopping some thick mix back into the pan and starts on another crepe.

Frank gives him what must be a confused a look, even though he knows Hector can’t see. “I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Hector says, still sounding unconcerned with the entire line of the conversation, like he’s doing Frank a huge fucking favor just by having it, like he’s more concerned with plating one of his crepes than with anything else in the world, even though he’s the one doing all the fucking talking at this point. “I just assumed you would. You know. I figured you guys would be talking marriage and kids and stuff by now.”

And they have been; very, very tentatively, like they’ve had to do every time Frank tries to give a name to what they are, but that’s none of Hector’s fucking business. He’s even got his grandma's ring stashed in the back of a drawer he hopes Laurel won’t ever go digging through in search of some lost pair of leggings.

He had, in fact, planned on breaking the ring out over Christmas, back before the invitation to Florida, back when he thought they’d just go over to his parents’ and spend the rest of the holiday holed up together in their apartment fucking and eating his mom’s Christmas cookies and drinking eggnog and trying to set up some sad three foot tall Charlie Brown Christmas tree. He even had half a mind to bring the ring with him to Florida, change the location rather than the timing, but Frank’s not so stupid as to think that’d be a good plan if he had any desire to see Laurel say yes.

But even so, even though he has every intention of marriage and kids and the whole nine yards with Laurel someday, he certainly doesn’t give a good goddamn that his hypothetical children, though he hopes they don’t remain so, might, potentially, have insomnia. He doesn’t know why he’d fucking care, why Hector thinks he would, other than just to start shit.

So his kids’ll be little night owls, will require a few thousand extra readings of Goodnight Moon or Green Eggs and Ham or whatever the fuck, but he doesn’t see how that’d turn him off the idea of a future with Laurel, though that’s what he thinks Hector’s intention is.

So he says nothing, sips his coffee, and glares at Hector over the rim of his mug.


	11. Chapter 11

Hector appears to ignore the murderous looks Frank is sending him, grabbing a number of jars of herbs from a cabinet and throwing them into the pan he indicated contained the hash-browns.

“How do you like your hash-browns?” he asks Frank after he seems satisfied with his spicing.

Frank shrugs. “Can’t say I’ve ever been asked that before.”

“Well then,” Hector says, giving the pan another shake. “I’ll get ‘em crispy.”

He goes to the fridge, takes out containers of some kind of berry. “I made compote too if you want some for the crepes,” he says, gesturing to a pot Frank had thought clean and unused. He’s not sure what the hell compote is, but apparently Hector’s back to being the good brother now, and offering the hapless boyfriend breakfast.

“You make enough for me to have any?” Frank asks.

“Yeah,” Hector says, flashing Frank a grin, now that he thinks they’re best damn friends. “In a restaurant you get used to prepping huge portions. I made enough for Paola and me, and I always like to have enough for my dad, if he comes down. It helps me keep on his good side.”

Frank hums noncommittally, supposing that he too, would do whatever was needed to stay on Jorge’s good side. “I though you were cut off though?” he asks. “Isn’t that what you told Laurel?”

Hector laughs slightly, grinning at Frank and leaning closer towards him like they’re sharing some secret. “I am. But I’m not on his bad side, not really. Dad considers money issues beneath him, thinks I’m standing on some absurd principle and will come crawling back to him eventually. Or his money. Whichever. But either way, he doesn’t think he needs to waste much effort thinking about it, because he’s going to get his way at the end.”

And that, Frank decides, is the rub. Jorge Castillo is the kind of man who assumes, because the opposite so rarely happens, that he will always get his way. And when he doesn’t, he makes things go his way; because he has the money and the power and the muscle to twist reality to the shape he wishes it. And, Frank thinks, because Laurel, in her own quiet way, seems to resist that molding, she, and not Hector, seems to be on their father’s ‘bad side,’ though Frank is not entirely sure what that entails.

Hector practically winks at him and gestures to a cabinet behind Frank’s head. “Grab a couple of plates from up there, would you?”

Frank complies obediently, bringing down four of the largest plates and handing them to Hector. He is torn between wanting to know more and wanting to erase the last fifteen minutes from his brain. He’s certain he wants to apologize to Laurel, though can’t decide for what.

“Hell,” Hector continues, turning the spitting bacon over appraisingly, after he’s set the plates beside the stove. “You’d think he’d be pissed after Laurel literally threw his money in his face and told him to fuck off. But no, he was more pissed she fucked with his plans for her than anything else.”

“You mean about Brown?” Frank hazards a guess, feeling a bit like he’s betraying Laurel. But he already knows there was some falling out over Brown, so he can’t see the harm in a few follow up questions.

“Yeah, I mean about Brown,” Hector tells him, as though Frank’s already in on the story. “Jesus, she must have been planning that shit for months. Comes down the morning of her eighteenth birthday to tell him she’s done taking his dirty fucking money, fuck you very much.” Hector’s practically cackling to himself, but there’s something serious in his eyes and Frank can’t tell whether it’s pride or jealousy or hate or some festering mixture of all three. He’s not even sure whether it’s directed towards Laurel or their father.

“And,” Hector continues, “I honestly think everything would’ve been fine after that, except then she drops the bomb that she’s not going to the University of Miami like he’s expecting, not going to study business or politics or whatever major he decided she should have as part of his bizarre plan for her. And that was when dad stopped playing nice and started getting real.”

Hector moves the pan of potatoes to a new burner to cool, flips the gas off. “But all’s well that ends well, I guess. She’s fine, he’s fine, they’re talking again, and they both live in a perpetual state of deluding themselves into thinking that the Cold War they find themselves entrenched in means they’ve won.”

“I don't think Laurel’s under any sort of impression that she's won,” Frank offers, recalling the night before and her state of near panic since they've arrived. He thinks, if anything, she acts like she knows the ax is going to fall at any moment, like she knows she’s probably living on borrowed time, why it’s seemed to Frank like she’s trying to run away from Christmas with her family almost as desperately as she’s been craving the trip.

Hector gives Frank a long, searching look, then almost too casually flips another crepe into the stack. “No,” he agrees solemnly. “I don't think she is either. I think maybe she believes she's at least escaped, or survived, or maybe just that there's a temporary truce. I think whatever she thinks, it’s probably still a delusion though.”

He slides a few crepes onto two of the plates, ladles the compote, which honestly just looks to Frank like sauce, onto both stacks, as though forgetting he’s not in a restaurant. Then, he scoops out some bacon and some hash-browns, sets them on both plates, before handing one to Frank like a peace offering, like a consolation prize.

“And you think you know better?” Frank asks, gripping the plate so tightly his knuckles go white, start to twitch with pain.

“Yeah,” he says, giving Frank a shrug and a dark, bitter smile. “I'm not stupid enough to think I can get away with anything unless it's cause he allows it. Thus, my version of bribery, so he lets me remain poor and dumb and, if not happy, at least pretending to be,” he tells Frank, holding the plate up with a laugh that only sounds mostly forced.

“And what?” he asks, because he can’t help himself, because Frank probably understands the currency of bribery better than anyone in this house, save maybe Jorge himself. “Laurel has nothing of value to trade to be left alone?”

“Basically,” Hector tells him, grabbing a couple of forks from a drawer and passing one to Frank. “Or no, that’s not right. She has plenty of value, but it’s all dependent on his being able to control her. Me, I’ve been a fucking disappointment since elementary school, and the restaurant isn’t anything special other than being mine. There’s a thousand other businesses he can invest in just as easily to get what he wants. So he hardly cares I’m alive. But Laurel, god, he had big plans for her. Hell, he probably still thinks she's gonna come to her senses and tell him he was right all along, that she's down with his evil plot. But she’s never going to do that and the longer things go on the more it pisses him off. And my dad; that bastard can hold a grudge.”

Hector shovels a few bites of hash-brown into his mouth, then edges around Frank to produce a bottle of ketchup from the fridge, squirting a generous amount onto his plate. “Don’t tell anyone,” he tells Frank with a sly grin.

Frank says nothing, and he can tell Hector feels uncomfortable at the silence; he goes serious again, and his eyebrows pull in like Laurel’s sometimes do when she’s thinking hard about something, about how much information to give away.

“You know, I honestly can’t tell if he invites her to Christmas because he hates her or because he loves her.”

“Does it have to be one or the other?” Frank asks him, thinking back to Laurel’s confession the night before. Love and hate aren’t always opposite emotions, Frank wants to say, and it’s hard to hate something you don’t, in some way, love. But he doesn’t mention anything about it to Hector; he thinks probably that’s something Hector Castillo knows all too well already.

Hector says nothing, stares intently at his food, appears to ignore Frank completely. So Frank had touched on something that makes Hector uncomfortable, something he doesn’t want to discuss.

“Do you think Laurel’d be better off if she’d stayed in Philly?” he asks pointedly, thinking maybe that is the direction Hector wants him to avoid.

“I think my answer is probably the same as yours, Frank,” Hector says, and there’s something nasty in his voice now, something that reeks of his father and brother.

Frank watches him for a long moment, setting his plate down on the counter beside him and crossing his arms over his chest to watch Hector. “I think you're certainly wishing you'd stayed in Miami," he finally says, thinking that this may be the best, most neutral thing he can say.

"Fucking amazing deduction, Sherlock," Hector tells him, more black anger bleeding into his words.

"Well, try this one on," Frank says, voice going edged, derisive and mocking. He's not sure why he's bothering, why he's letting himself get angry at this man who means nothing to him and seemingly very little to Laurel, but he is. Because, honestly, fuck him for not giving a shit about his sister except as a human shield. And if Laurel won't defend herself, Frank’ll do it for her, wanted or not, because he fucking loves her and he hates seeing her hurt. "You hate your dad. You want to tell your him how much you hate him, tell him what a piece of shit he is, but you never will. And you hate Laurel because she actually stands up to him, even though it kills her to. And you hate yourself most of all because you hate her for doing what you can't. How'm I doing now, Hector?"

He thinks for a moment that Hector is going to hit him, and Frank decides that if it happens, he won’t hold back, he’ll do what he can to lay Hector out, consequences be damned. But instead, Hector just smiles. “You’re not wrong,” he tells Frank, taking a decisive bite off a strip of bacon. “You’re not right either, but you’re not entirely wrong.”

Frank says nothing, continues to stand there, arms crossed like a bouncer, waiting for the mood to suddenly shift into dangerous territory again.

“Oh relax, Frank,” Hector says after a long moment, rolling his eyes in a gesture that he’s seen on Laurel hundreds of thousands of times. “Eat your breakfast.”

He waits for some signal from Frank, some indication that Frank isn’t going to hold a grudge or throw a punch, and then hops backwards to sit on the counter, lean against the cupboards, as he begins to shovel more of the hash-browns into his mouth.

Frank continues to lean against the counter, wary, but Hector appears to have largely forgotten about Frank in favor of his food. So Frank uncrosses his arms, takes up his plate and cuts a piece of the now cool crepe.

“Good, huh?” Hector asks after Frank has taken a few bites and shows no sign of stopping. Hector grins, tries to suppress it, but just looks smug and then glances down at his plate as if embarrassed that he’s so eager for Frank’s verdict on the food.

But it is good, the crepes are light and fluffy and, whatever compote is, sauce or not, its good too; tart and sweet and Frank can actually taste the berries, feel the seeds skidding in his teeth.

“Ever consider mixing French in with your Vietnamese-Cuban combo?” he asks, figuring he doesn’t have to like the kid, but he can at least give compliments where they’re due.

“Vietnamese food has actually a lot of French influences,” Hector says, taking a forkful of his own crepe. “So I can’t say I’m doing this blind.”

“You ever serve breakfast at your restaurant?” Frank asks him, pouring himself more coffee.

“Never,” he deadpans.

Frank laughs, he can’t help it; Hector’s tone reminds him so much of Laurel at her most sarcastic. Hector looks up and grins, surprised and delighted. Frank wonders how they’ve gotten to this truce, wonders if it really is a truce or just a lull in hostilities, but he continues to sip his coffee and waits. Then there comes the smart click of shoes against the marble floor and Adrian comes into view.

He’s wearing well tailored khakis, a green striped polo shirt and the same smug expression as the night before. He pauses as he enters the kitchen, regarding Frank and Hector’s state of disheveled undress cooly.

“Mornin’ A,” Hector greets him, though he doesn’t sound particularly friendly or excited to see his brother.

“Hector,” Adrian says, going to the impossible espresso machine and hitting a series of buttons Frank can’t follow, which results in the machine whirring to life. “Frank.”

“Hey.”

There’s a long pause before anyone speaks again, and Frank watches Hector nervously set his plate aside, drumming his fingers against the countertop for a moment, before seemingly thinking better of it and sliding to the floor. “You want any breakfast?”

“No,” Adrian tells him shortly, taking a small porcelain mug down from a cabinet and setting it under the espresso drip.

“C’mon, man,” Hector urges, though Frank thinks he seems a little too insistent and little too eager. “There’s plenty, and even Frank’s enjoying it.”

Frank nods, in case anyone cares about his input, though he’s fairly certain they don’t. Whatever sibling exchange is taking place, its clear that he’s only witnessing the midpoint in a conversation filled with layers of history and meaning.

“I already ate at home. Dad and I have a 10:00 tee time.”

Hector makes a noise that sounds like a disinterested scoff, but obviously isn’t, because Adrian chooses to respond to it. “You didn’t want to come, did you?” he asks, something mocking in his words.

“God no,” Hector says, rolling his eyes, though Frank thinks that maybe he’s a little hurt anyway, but it’s the dull hurt of an old wound, one he’s learned to live with.

“Frank?” he’s asked then. “You interested in golf at all? I’m sure my dad would love to have you along.”

“Sorry,” he tells Adrian, not at all sincerely. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about golfing.”

“Put the little ball in the little hole.”

“What?” both he and Adrian ask, turning to Hector.

“The first thing about golf,” they’re told with a childish smirk. “Put the little ball in the little hole. The second thing is to try and do it with the big stick.”

Adrian rolls his eyes, but it’s not good natured like Laurel’s, or even Hector’s. “That’s why we don’t take you.”

He turns his focus to Frank, evidently not done with him either. “Anyway, Frank. You should come. You certainly had the outfit down for it yesterday.”

Frank thinks hard, for the second time in twenty minutes, about punching one of Laurel’s brothers. He wonders if Adrian would be quite so good looking without teeth. But he shrugs the dig off after a quick flash of anger.

At the end of the day, he knows he looks good in his three-piece suits, gets enough women throwing him admiring stares and second glances to know that even if his sartorial choices are an affectation, a throwback to a long-dead era, he still looks ‘dapper’ as Laurel likes to call him, pretending she’s joking but unable to hide the hungry, wanting look in her eyes when he catches her staring at him from across a room. He can't help but wish she was here; not only to defend his taste in suits, but to clue him in on exactly what power struggle is taking place between Hector and Adrian, and between himself and Adrian, and maybe between all three of them.

“Golf’s not really my game,” is all Frank says, trying to keep his voice neutral, to give Adrian no clue that his words have any effect on him.

“What is your game then, Frank?” Adrian asks with what seems to Frank like a sneer. “Poker?”

Frank glances at Hector then, hoping he will give something away as to what Adrian’s game is, but, as he expected, Hector is now making a concerted effort to be invisible and won’t meet Frank’s eyes at all. Well, fuck the lot of them, then, he thinks.

He shrugs. “Not really. Not physical enough.” He thinks about crossing his arms over his chest, subtly flexing his not insubstantial muscles, which are already put on display by his wife-beater, but decides that would be far too petty, and he’s sure Adrian will notice the gesture, will view it as a sign of weakness if Frank reacts in any way to his words.

“What about Jai Alai, Frank?” Adrian asks him. “You ever played that?”

“Can’t say I even know what that is,” he says, though he assumes it’s some sport bound to get him a broken nose, or neck or maybe just some stitches if Adrian can successfully talk him into playing it.

Hector pipes up then, Frank supposes because he assumes no danger can come from the assist, or maybe because once he had his Wheaties he’s finally mustered up the courage to involve himself in the conversation. “Jai Alai is basically lacrosse mixed with racquetball mixed with getting shot,” he tells Frank, and even though it’s clear he’s joking, there’s something in Hector’s words that contains a note of truth. “Have you ever played though Adrian, or do you just watch and bet and get drunk?”

So, Frank thinks, Hector can dish it out when he wants to, trade the same underhanded barbs as the rest of his family. He just doesn’t, out of fear or lack of practice or some noble gesture. Adrian too, seems surprised, but smoothes it from his face quickly, turning to Hector with a disinterested smile. “I can’t say I’ve played, but I’m not the one who claims to only like physical sports. Frank, if that’s your thing, as you say, have my dad show you his court before you leave. He loves playing, and would love to teach you, I’m sure.”

And Frank can think of nothing he’d rather do less, if, as Hector says, the sport is some lacrosse/racquetball/murder hybrid. He thinks maybe Jorge already wants to murder him, under his statements of needing someone like Frank as a henchman; thinks Jorge probably wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to crack a few of Frank’s ribs if the opportunity arose. And of course the man built his own court, because what do you do when you have more money than god; you build a court in your mansion so you can practice the most obscure death-sport in the world whenever you want. So yeah, he’ll pass on Jai Alai or whatever, thanks.

But he’s saved from commenting when the hissing of the coffee machine finally ceases and Adrian picks up his mug, as though he’d been dying for it to finish so he could leave. “I’ll see you both later, I suppose,” he says unenthusiastically, turning on his heel and going back the way he came, presumably to find his father for the promised golf outing.

“Your brother’s kind of a douche,” Frank tells Hector after they’ve waited a few seconds for Adrian’s footsteps to fade.

Hector grins widely, stifles a little laugh. “I know. He tries too hard to be like dad. But he’s not anything like him. Adrian’s like my mom, and I love her, but honestly, she’s kind of useless,” he pauses, gives Frank a look he thinks comes from the corner of his eye, but Frank catches it.

“What?” he asks.

“Just...” he begins, then stops himself, seems to reconsider what he’s going to say.

“What Hector?” Frank asks again, a little more forcefully this time.

“Just that Laurel, out of all of us, is probably the most like him. My dad.”

Frank takes a long, hard look at Hector, measuring the quality of his words and the intentions behind them. He can’t quite decide whether Hector means them as a compliment or not; whether he wants Frank to take them as a warning or as praise. Finally he decides he doesn’t care how they were meant.

“I know,” he tells Hector, deciding that even if no one else will, he’ll be honest and straightforward. “She probably wouldn’t be with me if she wasn’t. And I probably wouldn’t be with her either.”


	12. Chapter 12

Hector leaves him soon after that, tells him he needs to go find Paola, give her the breakfast he promised her before they both forget. Frank makes note of the fact that Hector, not just Laurel, treats Paola with more affection than they do most of their actual family. So, left standing in the kitchen alone, he dishes more food onto his plate, pours a second mug of coffee and decides to wake Laurel with his ill-gotten gains.

He goes back the way he came, outside to the front door, and back to their guest room. Laurel’s still in bed when he cracks open the door, but she turns her face toward the sound and stretches, languidly, giving Frank a truly excellent view of her naked back.

Her eyes crack open, blink at him, and then she stretches again, her back bowing. “Hey,” she says, and her voice is low and hoarse from sleep and Frank feels a surge of desire shoot through him.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces, holding up the plate and mugs in explanation.

“Mmmmm,” she half-purrs, running her fingers through her tousled hair, trying to push it back and out of her eyes. “Thanks.”

He sets the plate and one of the mugs down on the dresser, goes to hand her the mug of coffee. She sits up enough to take it, knees curled up to her chest, scoots over as she does to allow him to slide into bed next to her. Laurel sniffs the rim of the mug before giving it an experimental sip.

“Oh my god, Frank,” she says, voice still low and breathy, taking another, longer sip. “You found the Instant Coffee.”

She reaches over him, sets the mug down gently on the end table. He thinks she’s going to settle next to him in the bed once she’s done, but instead Laurel uses the gesture to straddle him, one hand going to his cheek, stroking against his beard as she brings her lips to his.

“You,” she tells him. “Are an amazing man.”

Frank is not a smart man, but he knows it is exactly the wrong time to mention that it was Hector who found the Mr. Coffee, who cooked breakfast, so instead he just gives her a cocky smirk. “I am,” he agrees.

“You are,” she says and kisses him again, slow and fierce. She’s topless and before he can help it, his right hand seeks out her breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

She gasps into his mouth, arches into his hand.

“Better than the Mr. Coffee?” he asks her then, because he’s nothing if not a teasing sonuvabitch.

“Don’t push your luck…” she begins, but trails off with a strangled cry when his teeth nip against her earlobe, the sensitive spot at her collarbone. She’s laughing when she regains her breath.

Her hands drop to his stomach, splay over the planes of his abs. “Get rid of this,” she orders, lifting the hem of the wife-beater slowly and raking her nails across his skin. And fuck, that little gesture sends all the blood in his body rushing straight to his cock and he feels himself growing impossibly hard. Laurel giggles again, gives an appraising glance at the bulge in his shorts and palms him through the fabric. Her lips kiss the edges of the shirt at his neck, shoulders, teeth skimming the border between skin and fabric.

Frank complies with her demand, pulling the wife-beater over his head and tossing it to the side. He’d probably kill for Laurel if she asked, but this is so much more pleasant, he thinks as he strokes his fingers over the thin, lacy fabric of her underwear, feeling the wetness pooling between her thighs.

“Can I get rid of these too?” he teases, fingering the elastic waistband, rasping his beard over the tops of her breasts.

She just nods, little breathless gasp stealing her voice. But then her hand tugs at his shorts and boxers, trying to push them down his hips and it’s Frank’s turn to gasp.

Laurel kisses him, one hand on his shoulder, her teeth tugging gently at his bottom lip until he lets her slip her tongue past his lips.

She pushes Frank’s boxers down with her free hand, letting his erection spring free between their bodies. Her hand strokes over him once, twice; their lips and tongues and teeth still tangling together as he hisses his desire into her mouth.  
Laurel shimmies out of her underwear and positions herself over him, guides him into her waiting heat. She sinks down onto him slowly, a little moan escaping her. One of Frank’s hands goes to the curve of her waist, fanning out over the span of her hipbone, the other drifting to where their bodies are joined, stroking over her clit.

Laurel pushes gently on his chest, sending him back to lie flat against the bed, a hand bracing against his chest, near his collarbone, nails digging almost painfully into his skin as she begins to move over him. Her other hand goes to her hair, pushing the long, dark tresses away from her face as she rides him.

She sets a slow, unhurried rhythm, rolling her hips languidly, so torturously slow that he is conscious of every stroke of her body over him, every inch of her body, every place their skin touches. Save for the quick, breathy pants that begin to take on the quality of moans, Frank would’ve said she wasn’t close at all, could continue like that for days. He can feel his own desire building low in his stomach and behind his eyes. His thumb moves faster against her clit and she increases the pace of her thrusts, in time with his movements against her.

“Cheater,” she pants, dropping the hand from her hair to further brace herself against his chest, body bowing forward as she nears her climax.

He would answer, but Laurel digs her fingernails into his chest again, almost too painfully, and instead he just grins up at her. He thinks the effect is somewhat weakened by the groan she pulls out of him then when she falls forward to run her lips, her tongue, her teeth over his pulse point. The hand he’s had at her hip moves to palm the curve of her ass.

Her pace begins to falter, stutter, and he knows she’s close. Frank’s fucking close, the feel of her walls fluttering around his cock leaves him teetering right on the edge. His left hand goes to her breast, and that’s enough; Laurel arches into his hand and she’s moaning his name as she climaxes. He follows behind her seconds later.

Laurel collapses against his chest, laughs and kisses him, slow and sweet. She doesn't let herself move, doesn't slide off him, lets their bodies remain joined as their tongues tangle. Frank wonders if she’s waiting for him to harden again, wants to take him a second round, thinks that doesn't sound like a bad idea at all.

But then she shifts, and he slides out of her, but wraps her in his arms before she can move away.

“Morning sex, instant coffee and breakfast in bed,” Laurel rasps, kissing him again. “Best Christmas Eve ever.”

“And to think I could be golfing with your dad and brother instead,” he says into her shoulder, turning his head slightly to judge her reaction. Frank doesn’t want to keep that exchange from her, wants them to be a team when it comes to getting through Christmas, but he’s not sure bringing it up will be a great plan either if he ever wants to have morning sex again.

Laurel raises her head slightly, rests her chin on his chest. “They invited you?”

Frank can’t decide whether her words are a question or a statement, so he just nods. “Your brother, yeah. I think it was more to piss off Hector though.”

She hums her agreement. “Probably. They’re playing in some stupid golf tournament all day at my dad’s club. Christmas Eve tradition. Which, honestly, wouldn’t be so bad, except Elena always makes us have dinner there afterwards.”

Frank gives her a questioning look and she huffs against his chest.

“Nessa’s kids aren't great in public, and Hector usually gets sloppily drunk and tries to start fights with Adrian,” she explains, sounding tired and weary already.

“Well, how bout we plan on sneaking off and fucking in the fancy club bathroom when things get awkward?”

She laughs softly. “You just got laid,” Laurel tells him, rolling her eyes, but he can see the affection in the gesture. “Do you think of anything else?”

“Generally no,” he confesses, nuzzling her shoulder with his beard. “And even less when you’re lying here hot and naked.”

“How can I resist a pickup line like that?” she asks with another laugh.

“What’s Jai Alai, by the way?” he asks after a long moment, not entirely sure Laurel is still awake, but figuring if she is he’ll get a real response from her at least.

“Oh god,” she groans, forehead falling against his chest, into the space right below his chin. “Please tell me you didn’t agree to play with anyone?”

“No,” he tells her with a grin. “I wasn’t that stupid.”

“Good,” she says and kisses him. “It’s like racquetball I guess. But instead of a little rubber ball, you hurl this thing that’s more like a rock, and it can travel at like a hundred miles an hour.”

“So I was basically signing up for Christmas in the ER with a concussion or a broken jaw.”

“They’d probably have to shave your beard to get your jaw wired shut,” she says, not entirely sympathetically, though she does place a string of kisses along his jawline. “And I’m very fond of your beard.”

“I’m very fond of my beard too,” he says, drawing his fingers along the contours of her back. “It makes me look manly and intimidating.”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“Hey,” he says, in mock hurt. “You like the things my beard can do. Are you only using the beard for sex?”

She hums, wicked grin sliding onto her face. “Could be.”

“That’s ok,” he tells her. “I’m only with you because of your truly breathtaking tits.”

Laurel laughs, the sound bursting out of her as though she hadn’t expected it, didn’t have the time to stifle it. “Really?” she says, pushing herself off the bed to hover over him, one arm on either side of his head, and Frank can’t help it, his eyes go straight to her chest.

“Fuck no,” he says, taking her in his arms and rolling their bodies so that Laurel is beneath him. He slides down her body, takes a breast into his mouth, runs his teeth over the too-soft skin there. “But they do help.”

 

* * *

 

 

They eventually make it beyond the bedroom, after breakfast and coffee and a long shower in probably the most amazing bathroom Frank’s seen in his entire life. Frank thinks there’s something to be said for money if it can buy you water pressure like Laurel’s parents have in their guest bathroom. 

He trails behind Laurel as she goes in search of Hector, or more specifically, his car keys, because Laurel has apparently decided to stand on some principle Frank doesn’t entirely understand and won’t borrow one of her dad’s numerous cars. With Jorge and Adrian off golfing all day and Elena waiting on the arrival of Laurel’s sister and her children, Laurel talks Frank into striking out to explore Palm Beach.

“Can’t we just walk?” Frank asks, after they’ve unsuccessfully tried to locate Hector in his preferred guest-room; apparently Laurel’s childhood bedroom, which now looks like nothing more than a smaller, less well-appointed version of the room they’re now occupying. Frank’s got to admit he’s a little disappointed, he was hoping some clue about teenage Laurel remained in the room for him to uncover, but it’s as bland and personalityless as Laurel had promised, nothing even hinting at what bands or activities or even colors Laurel had favored as a child.

She shrugs. “We could, but it’s a bit of a hike. An hour maybe.”

He gives her a look, he thinks it lands somewhere between annoyed and affectionate. “It’s gonna take that long to find your damn brother in this house.”

“Probably,” she says, but seems unconcerned. “I could try texting him.”

Frank scoffs and gives her an incredulous look. “You’re going to text someone in the same house?”

She turns around to stare at him, mocking grin slipping onto her face. “You’re the one that keeps telling me how big the house is.”

“It’s not a house, princess,” he corrects. “It’s a fucking mansion. No, strike that, it’s a fucking palace.”

She ignores his jibe. “You want me to text him or not?”

“No,” Frank practically growls. “Let’s just find him already.”

Her grin grows wider and they slip down the stairs, head in what he thinks is the direction of the kitchen. Frank tries again to memorize the path to the kitchen, again gives up what he thinks is about halfway through. “Your folks should really hand guests a map at the door. Or have like color coded paths to important places.”

“It's not that…” she begins.

“Don’t even fucking say it, Laurel,” he warns.

“You’re right. It is that fucking big,” she says with a little sigh. “I could draw you a map if you really wanted. Color code the fastest routes to food, the bedroom and escape.”

He chuckles. “That’d honestly be the best damn Christmas present you could give me.”

She looks back at him and there’s some teasing, hungry glint in her eye. “I thought you were looking forward to unwrapping tiny bikinis.”

“Only if I can find my way outside to the pool.”

Laurel frowns hard for a moment, then seems to pull herself back from somewhere and her grin slides back into place. “Ok, but I’m not going to show you where the tiger traps or alligator pits are. Those you’ll have to find on your own.”

He rolls his eyes. “We’re in Florida, babe, everywhere’s an alligator pit.”

She gives him half a laugh at that, but he’ll take it. They’re in maybe a sunroom or a giant living room or something; two story windows looking out over the pool and ocean. It’s still early, and the sun is practically blinding. Laurel leads him to the windows, slipping out a little door onto a patio next to the pool.

Elena is lying in a deck chair, wearing a large sunhat and sunglasses that make her look like some strange alien bug. She’s got half a grapefruit lying untouched next to her on a little steel and glass table and is holding a tumbler full of something Frank initially thinks is water, before he catches Laurel’s too-long look and narrowed eyes. _Oh._

Laurel perches on the edge of her mother’s chair, careful not to jostle her or even touch her. “Morning Elena. Have you seen Hector anywhere?”

Elena glances at her daughter, shifts the sunglasses on her face and waves the tumbler in a vague sort of way. “In the kitchen I assume. Or ask Paola, you know she knows everything.”

Laurel frowns at the tumbler, at her mother. “You could at least cut it with something, mom,” she says, her voice sounding so small to Frank’s ears it feels like his chest is being crushed. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Laurel sound so defeated, even when facing a case with impossible odds and a shrinking deadline.

He thinks too, this is the first time Frank’s heard her address Elena as ‘mom’ and wonders just what it was like for tiny, shy, hopelessly smart, sensitive, terrifyingly observant Laurel to grow up in this house, with these parents; marvels again at how normal she’s forced herself to become through little more than will-power when the people who were supposed to love her put her, at best, a distant second. Frank wants to tell her she’s perfect anyway, that she deserved so much better, that he would promise to spend the rest of his life making up for the first eighteen years of hers if he thought it would do any fucking good, that he’ll promise it anyway if that’s what she wants.

He crosses his arms over his chest so that they don’t close into fists, grinds his teeth so hard he’s surprised that Laurel and Elena don’t hear. 

Elena makes an ugly, scoffing noise, turning away from Laurel and her deep, deep frown. “I’m going to drink the same amount anyway, darling. Why add extra calories?” and if her voice were any less casual, Frank would think she was talking about the weather, or an unsightly stain on someone else’s ceiling.

Laurel’s eyes skitter away from Elena, as though she can make things go away if she doesn’t acknowledge them, seemingly adopting Hector’s strategy for dealing with his family. 

“When are you expecting Nessa?” she asks casually, and just like that, her voice is smooth and uninterested, strenuously casual. “We want to try and be back when they arrive.”

Frank wants to smash something, wants to tell Laurel it's alright to be angry, to be hurt, that they can't possibly hurt her anymore than they're doing already, so she should just fucking quit trying to hide it.  
But then Frank wakes up to the fact that it's not his fucking life, that much as he loves her, he's little more than a tourist to her history in this house, with these people, and any strategy Laurel’s adopted to survive and stay sane is bound to be better and more well thought out than anything he comes up with on the fly as a spectator to the battles and wounds that have been occurring without his help for years.

“Around 2:00 or 3:00 I think,” Elena tells her, the boredom in her voice becoming more pronounced. She takes a long sip of her drink. “She said she wanted to get the kids lunch or something before heading here. But you really should ask Paola, Laurel; you know I don’t keep track of these things.”

“Ok, Elena,” Laurel sighs, gets to her feet stiffly. “Have a good day. We’ll see you later.”

“You too darling,” her mother tells her, again gesturing idly with the tumbler. “And send someone out will you? I’d like a top up and some cantaloupe.”

Laurel doesn’t respond, just turns her back on her mother and strides back towards the house. As she passes Frank, he uncrosses his arms, places his hand lightly against the small of her back for just a moment. She glances at him and tries to smile.

“Fuck this,” she says vehemently. “If Hector’s not in the kitchen, we’re walking. I don’t think I can deal with anyone else in this house right now.”

Frank just nods, he's completely at a loss for words beyond ones he is certain are stupid and hollow. So he just goes for broke. “It’ll be nice, the walk. As long as there are no alligator pits.”

Laurel’s mouth quirks and she grabs his hand in hers for half a second and Frank's heart manages to unclench half a degree. “You’re an idiot. I love you.”

“Love you too, babe,” he tells her, giving her an exaggerated wink. “Always.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter wasn't in my original plan/outline for the work, like, AT ALL, but it just kind of happened as I wrote (which sort of never happens.) And then I kind of liked how it fit into everything so I just went with it. Hopefully it works...

Luckily, they find Hector soon after that, idly shooting pool by himself in yet another room overlooking the beach, this one featuring a flat screen and a large cherry wood billiard table.

Laurel commandeers his keys with only minimal trouble, after both promising she will consider being the designated driver that evening and apologizing repeatedly for some accident she got into with Hector’s car when she was like sixteen and which he’s still holding over her head.

It’s only when they’re sitting in the car that Frank and Laurel both realize they haven’t figured out where they’re going or what they’re doing beyond getting out of the house.

“So what is there actually to do in Palm Beach?” he asks.

“The beach,” she deadpans.

Frank gives her a look. “We don't need the car for that. Anything else?”

She shrugs. “There’s a bunch of expensive stores. Cafes. Golf courses. A yacht club. An art museum.”

His incredulous look grows more pronounced. “An art museum? Really?”

“It’s nice,” Laurel insists, somewhat insincerely. “There’s a zoo?”

He chuckles. “Hard pass.”

“Yeah, me too,” she says frowning hard. “There’s also some bunker the CIA built for JFK,” she suggests with a roll of her eyes.

They sit there for a moment longer. “I’ve got an idea,” Laurel finally says, turning the key in the ignition and setting the car to life.

“You gonna tell me what it is?” Frank asks as she begins to back out.

She grins at him out of the corner of her mouth, wicked and quick. “Nope.”

“Not even a hint?” he pleads. “C’mon.”

Laurel makes a small noise. “We’ve been trying to find things to do in Palm Beach. Well, I hate Palm Beach, and you barely know it, so that seems pretty stupid to me.”

“We’re going back to Philly aren’t we?” he asks wryly, catching her eyes. “Couldn’t we have gone back for our bags?”

She laughs, grins so hard he sees her eye teeth. “No, we’re just going where we’d go if we had a few hours to kill back home.”

“Sex toy shop?” he asks her.

“Nope, I don't even know if Palm Beach has one.”

The look Frank gives her is hungry and wolfish. “What, high school Laurel wasn’t into any of that yet?”

And it's not like they’ve traded detailed stories, he’s not nineteen and insecure, but he knows enough about Laurel’s history at that awful Catholic prep school to know that there were definitely some tenets of Catholicism that she was pretty heavily ignoring. He knows the basics; how she cut loose the rich, clean cut boyfriend she was only half heartedly into for hookups with the bartender at her parents’ club who knew where to get Cuban rum and how to find her g-spot. Frank had always figured it was the bartender who’d turned Laurel into an exhibitionist with a bossy side, but maybe he was wrong and it’d been the hipster poli-sci major she had hate sex with her first semester at Brown. 

Laurel scoffs and rolls her eyes. “High school Laurel was an idiot.”

“I really, really think we should remedy that babe. See what you were missing out on.”

“I know what I was missing out on,” she tells him, drumming her fingers idly on the steering wheel, voice strangely neutral.

“I'd rather not be reminded of how much. Plus,” she says, giving him a little look that’s hard to interpret. “I think you’ll like this too, even if there’s probably not going to be sex involved.”

“There’s still a chance though, right?” he asks with a laugh.

Laurel’s grin is wide, teasing. “Always a chance.” She takes her right hand from the wheel and rests it on the back of his thigh, palm up. He takes her hand in his, threading their fingers together.

They drive a few minutes longer before Laurel pulls off and parks the Civic.

“Still not gonna tell me where we’re going?” Frank asks, looking around the shops lining the street, hoping he can spot their destination. They all appear to be small boutiques or cafes, nothing that immediately screams out to him.

“Nope. But it’s on a different street, so quit trying to figure it out.”

Frank smirks at her and pulls out his phone.

“Seriously?” she asks him, giving him an exasperated look. “You’re gonna Street View us?”

“Totally,” he says, pulling his phone away from Laurel’s reach as she tries to grab for it.

She makes a little noise of frustration, wrenching the driver’s door open. “C’mon. The sooner we get there the sooner your ridiculous curiosity gets satisfied.”

Frank scrolls distractedly through his phone’s GPS as he follows her to the sidewalk. Art gallery, diner, bank, boutique, boutique…and there. He holds the screen up to her triumphantly. “We’re going here, huh?”

She glances at the screen, frowns at him, but can’t help the grin that slips onto her face. “Honestly, it took you longer than I thought.”

“Wow,” Frank says sarcastically, shooting Laurel a lopsided grin, taking her hand in his. “Take me all the way to Palm Beach and we to go to a bookstore.”

She laughs lightly. “I did consider trying to teach you how to surf, so consider yourself lucky.”

He shoots her a look, which just sets her grin wider. Surfing, much like rock climbing, doesn't really seem like his kind of sport. He wants something simple, likes a sport you can do anywhere, at any time, no requirement for special equipment or location. Boxing, baseball, basketball if you’re really stretching things. But then again, the thought of Laurel on a surfboard, well, that certainly changes his mental calculus.

“But I considered a bookstore a safer bet,” she adds with a teasing little grin.

He rolls his eyes at her, lets her lead him down the sidewalk. “Are we gonna go play the game?”

“We are,” Laurel confirms with a grin.

Frank chuckles. The game is something they started to do on slow Sunday afternoons after coffee and bagels, when they have a few hours to kill before starting to worry about work or studying or dinner at Frank’s parents’. Their neighborhood has a quirky independent bookstore that Frank has always loved to spend hours rooting through. Laurel, much more decisive about her literary choices, given her minuscule free time, had begun the game as a way to distract Frank and keep herself from being bored. She’d read a book title, ask Frank to guess the plot. Given Frank’s competitive nature, it had since evolved into a no-holds barred, loosely points-based contest that could be used to determine anything from who had to do the dishes to who had to pay for parking. And they played it anywhere there were books; from friends’ houses to airport kiosks to that time Frank tried to play it with law books during Laurel’s finals week when she was holed up in the library and he’d only see her to bring her food and a change of clothes.

"And,” she says. “Since you keep complaining that I haven't gotten you anything for Christmas, I’ll let you browse while I find you a gift.”

“So you admit you haven't gotten me anything?” Frank teases, nudging her shoulder with his.

“I may have, I may not have,” she says with a too-casual shrug, though there’s a glint in her eye that smacks of amusement.

“You’ll find out. But I’ll buy you one more. And I probably should get something for Nessa’s kids so they have something other than sugar and video games.”

Frank groans. “Don't tell me you’re that aunt?”

“What does that mean?” she asks him, eyes narrowing.

“You know, the aunt that buys educational gifts. And tries to feed them spinach.”

Laurel’s eyes roll. “I’m not going to buy them a dictionary Frank. I’ll buy them something they’ll like. I was thinking Roald Dahl for all of them this year. I’m pretty sure my niece might be old enough for Matilda now.”

Frank gives her an affectionate smile. “Ok, so you're not quite that aunt.”

“I actually only thought of doing Roald Dahl since I'm pretty sure Eric needs to be terrified of something before he becomes a serial killer. I'm hoping The Witches puts some healthy fear into the kid.”

“So, I'm rethinking my decision to let him near me with anything resembling a lightsaber,” Frank quips.

“Probably smart,” Laurel advises with a serious nod. “Poor Luna needs Matilda almost as badly as I did at her age.”

“Yeah?”

Laurel nods once, her little frown deepening. “That book practically saved my life as a kid. I identified with Matilda.” She laughs sharply. “I'm sure you can imagine.”

And he can, though he thinks this may be the first time Laurel has even alluded to her father’s place in the world of the less than legal. Though, Frank supposes, she could just as easily be talking about being horribly misunderstood by her parents or having faced a level of benign parental neglect that would have gotten Child Protective Services involved had the Castillos been any less wealthy. So yeah, he thinks he gets why Laurel might see similarities between herself and a small quiet bookish character with horrible parents who longed for both escape and revenge. He thinks Matilda at 25 would probably have an awful lot in common with Laurel.

They approach the bookstore, tucked away unobtrusively in a basic storefront with an even more basic black sign out front. But once they open the door, it’s like they’re back in their neighborhood bookshop. Old beat up shelves, dim lighting and stacks of books heaped everywhere. Frank practically breathes a sigh of relief.

Laurel trips ahead as they go through the door. “I’ll come find you with some good ones,” she says, turning around to meet his eyes. “Go browse.”

“Nothing I’ve already read,” he cautions, squeezing their still joined hands.

She rolls her eyes. “I can’t keep track of everything you read.”

“Last time you tried a book you’d read too, that’s just pathetic,” he tells her with an affectionate smirk, following her through the twisting corridors of shelves. He thinks she’s probably heading towards fiction; they can split up there. “You shoulda gotten negative points for that.”

She groans. “You’re already up by like twenty, you don't have to cheat to get more points.”

“That’s only cause you were terrible last week during finals. You’ll rally today.”

“Oh, I plan on it,” Laurel warns, narrowing her eyes. “We’re going to that stupid New Year’s Eve party Michaela guilted me into and I’m not going to be the DD.”

“Jesus,” Frank groans. “Can’t she be normal and let us go to a party downtown. Why the hell do we have to drive?”

“Because she likes parties at fancy mansions, I don't know,” Laurel rolls her eyes good naturedly. They stop under the sign for Fiction, and Laurel turns, leans against the shelves, arms crossed, to watch him. “I think some guy she’s into is hosting.”

“And why’d we agree to go again?” he asks, not for the first time. It’s not that he doesn’t like Michaela, Frank admits she eventually grew on him when she stopped acting like everything was perfect all the time. But really, a fancy party at a fancy mansion is not how either he or Laurel had been wanting to spend New Year’s Eve.

She shrugs. “Sometimes I think Michaela wishes she’d had my life. I try to help her retroactively achieve the rich girl, princess fantasy she thinks it was.”

“Is that guilt or something else?” Frank asks, as he scans the shelves, taking in their extensive fiction selection. “Making sure someone maintains the illusion.”

Laurel laughs, with hardly a trace of bitterness. “Probably.”

“She’s probably too high strung to deal with reality,” Frank says. “You’re doing us all a favor.”

Laurel leans forward then, reaches to the shelf across the aisle and takes a book. “You read this one right?” she asks him, holding up the book.

“Yeah,” Frank confirms, glancing at the cover. “You did too.”

“Right, when we were with your parents at the shore. It was all about being rainy and cold,” she says with a shudder. “Exactly what I didn’t want at the beach.”

She picks up another. “This one?”

“That I haven’t read,” he tells her, trying to judge from the title and cover what the book is about. “I’m gonna say it's about being rich, or wanting to be rich in New York. Maybe in the 80’s.”

Laurel scans the back cover. “Pretty close, though I think you get docked a point because there’s no mention of the 80’s.”

“I only said maybe, that should be extra points if I was right.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes herself back from the shelves. “Fine. I’m going to go find gifts. You find me a way to get my points back.”

He nods, tries to look stern and serious, but it turns into a lopsided grin before he can stop himself. He salutes her as she stalks off. “I’ll be sure to find some easy ones.”

 

* * *

  
Laurel finds him again after what seems like only minutes, but is probably closer to an hour, after he’s piled a dozen books at his feet and is trying to create a mental ranking of how much he wants each of them, compared with how much of a hassle getting them back to Philly will be.

Laurel sets a large paper bag at her feet, that she seems to have studiously folded closed so Frank can’t hope to get a glimpse inside.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks, glancing at his pile. 

“I really should just order them online,” he says, but doesn’t sound convinced even to his own ears.

She shrugs. He thinks Laurel has been through this enough to know he’s probably going to bite the bullet anyway, because Frank is nothing if not into instant gratification if he can get it.

“I’ll get half,” he decides, discarding the bottom of the rankings, trying to relocate them on the shelves. He’s distracted, he always gets distracted in bookshops, so that he doesn’t notice the wide, wide grin Laurel is trying like mad to suppress and the way she’s practically humming with some kind of pent up excitement.

When he finally does look up from the books and notices her, he can tell instantly. She’s already grinning, though he can tell she’s trying to school her expression into something less ecstatic, trying to make it into something casual and calm. Trying to turn her smile into something closed mouthed, something polite, trying to bite her lip to keep her mouth tugged shut. But she’s failing, her smile keeps slipping wider and wider before she seems to remember and wrestles her emotions under control again. But even behind her smile, there’s something shining in her eyes, something wild like a shout.

“What’s going on?” He asks, trying not to sound suspicious or worried. It can’t possibly be something bad if she’s smiling that widely.

“I got a call,” she tells him. Frank thinks she tries to sound nonchalant, but it comes out in a breathy rush, like she can’t contain her words and they’re about to come spilling out of her. He thinks that maybe she has only so much strength to keep this news inside her and whatever it is is overwhelming her, slipping out past her grip.

“Ok,” Frank says slowly, teasing, trying to draw the moment out as long as possible if Laurel won’t just spill, make her suffer too. “And what was this call about?”

“It was from Joe.” There’s a long pause while she watches Frank, waits for him to respond. When he doesn’t answer quickly enough, she begins again. “My boss, Joe the PD.”

“Huh,” Frank says. He thinks he knows where this might be going, but he’ll keep playing it cool if he can. He thinks he might be failing just as badly as Laurel, thinks a grin might just be splitting his face as widely as it is hers. He runs a hand through his beard, uses the moment to smooth his face back into something neutral. “He doesn’t need you to do any work over the holiday, does he?”

“No,” she says. “He doesn't.” And Laurel’s practically crackling with excitement, he thinks if she doesn’t come out with it soon she’s going to burst apart.

“Ok, so what then?”

And if anything her smile grows wider. “He made an offer. For the fall. After the bar,” she whispers as though she can’t quite believe the news, thinks if she says it out loud it won’t come true, will turn out to be some silly fantasy. He hates that she’s so afraid of her own happiness, loves that maybe this time she doesn’t care to try and hide it. “To come on in the Public Defender’s Office.”

“For reals?” he asks, and now he knows he’s grinning like a madman, practically from ear to ear. Laurel is too, nodding like she can’t quite believe herself, her hands twisting and fluttering as if she’s forgotten how they work.

Before he can help it, before he’s even realized he’s done it, Frank’s wrapped her in his arms, practically lifted her off her feet, in a hug he thinks is probably bordering on painful. “That’s amazing,” he tells her. “You’re amazing. I knew he would.”

“I didn't,” she whispers into his neck, but he can still feel her smiling wide against his skin. “Last week I was looking at a job opening in the PD’s office in Wilmington, trying to figure out if I could switch to take the Delaware bar if I needed to.”

“Of course he was gonna make you an offer babe,” Frank tells her, setting her down, but still keeping his arms wrapped around her body. He never wants to let her go. He never has to now. He fucking loves her in every brilliant, damaged way. “He’d be stupid not to.”

She grins, shyly, her teeth rubbing against the pad of her thumb. “He said I could probably handle some juvenile cases in a few months. Not just DUIs and Disorderlies.”

“That’s amazing,” he says again, again crushes her against him. He wants to stay like this, in this moment, forever, he never wants to love her less, think she’s any less perfect than she is in this moment. He thinks he should try to be more eloquent, say something other than amazing, but he just can’t. Amazing is the only thing that covers it. Laurel’s got a job offer, in the PD’s Office, in Philly. She’s gonna be doing what she loves, what she wants to do, and she’s gonna be able to do it in Philly, with him, with their really wonderful and pretty much perfect life. He doesn't think he could ever be happier about a moment that has exactly nothing to do with him. Except, it has everything to do with him.

“Wait,” he pulls back slightly, looks her in the eyes, tries to adopt a serious and stern expression, but thinks he probably fails. “You did say yes, right?”

Laurel laughs, warm and light and just fucking perfect. She kisses him, still laughing. Frank’s laughing too, and it’s messy and kind of painful when their teeth accidentally knock together, and it should be up there among maybe the worst kisses he’s ever had, but he thinks he’ll probably remember it in hindsight as one of the best. “I said yes,” she confirms, and he thinks if this were any other time, Laurel’s eyes would be rolling so hard they’d fall out of her head. “Of course I said yes.”

“Just checking,” he says and kisses her again, slow and sweet. “I fucking love you,” he tells her then. “And I am so fucking happy for you.”

She grins, glances up at him, suddenly shy. “I love you too. And well, I was wondering, if maybe, if,” she says, tripping over her words and Frank watches her eyes swing to somewhere beyond his left shoulder for a moment before she seems to steel herself, take a deep long breath and meet his gaze, serious and unflinching. She bites her bottom lip between her teeth, brings her left hand to her lips to worry the little scars there, takes another breath like she’s preparing to jump in freezing water, but her eyes don't leave his.

“What?” he jokes, his grin lopsided, trying to diffuse whatever tension has worked its way into her voice, her mood. “You worried I’m not gonna let you be my sugar mama?”

“Marry me,” she blurts out then, but her voice is steady and sure and just so fucking certain. “Just. Just marry me.”

"Wait, _what_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not sorry) about the cliffhanger. It's honestly not much of a cliffhanger, really.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, couldn't help myself. Had to do something nice and fluffy like that last chapter (and this one too) before things start taking a decidedly darker and less fluffy turn in the next few chapters.  
> And then things are gonna stay dark pretty permanently from there on out...

“Wait, _what_?” The question emerges before he can stop himself, because that cannot possibly be what Laurel just said.

“Get married. To me. Obviously,” she stutters out, as though she's just as shocked by her words as Frank is. But still, the look in her eyes is calm, certain. There is no doubt now as to what she'd asked, no taking it back.

And Frank had half a dozen things he thought she was going to say, but that was not one of them. That wasn’t even in the same universe as what he was expecting Laurel to say. He knows he probably shouldn’t, knows that it isn’t the right reaction, but he freezes in shock. It only lasts a moment, but he sees something begin to crumble in Laurel’s eyes.

“Please,” she says then, voice hardly more than a whisper, tiny and lost, and Frank thinks she’s almost begging him now, thinks something in her will shatter if he doesn't answer right fucking now, thinks something in him may have already broken past repair.

As soon as the words hit him, as soon as he realizes what she’s said, his lips are on hers again, trying to wipe that devastated expression from her face. Because of course he fucking wants to marry her, and the thought that even for a moment she believed he didn’t, that she doubted what they had, what he feels for her, Frank decides that maybe he will spend the rest of his life gladly atoning for it, working to convince her of the truth that he has never loved anything more. He wants her to know that he’s not her father, or her mother, or the rest of her shitty family, he’s not someone who’s supposed to love her and doesn’t give a damn, and he won’t let her down. Not ever. That there’s never been a doubt in his mind about wanting to spend every second of the rest of his life with her.

And now he can pretty much definitively say that this, this, is the best damn kiss of his life. Because she wants to marry him, doesn't want to live without him either.

Laurel gasps into his mouth, shock or surprise stilling her body for half a moment before she brings one hand to his cheek, the other going to the back of his neck.

“Of course I wanna marry you,” he tells her seriously, their faces inches away from each other, his eyes fixed on hers, never wanting to look away, never wanting the moment to end. Her eyes are glassy with tears, big and blue and he’s swimming in them. He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, kisses the soft skin at her neck. She sniffles, sighs. “Course I do. Obviously.”

Her eyes roll, but the effect is diminished by her tears, her huge ebullient smile. “Obviously.”

Frank kisses her again, tongue slipping past her teeth, backing their bodies up against the hard wood of the shelves. He has the rest of his life to kiss her now, but that hasn't diminished his desire; he wants to kiss her forever. “I have a ring,” he confesses, one arm on either side of her head against the shelves, breathing heavy, when they finally break apart. Her hands are joined at the back of his neck, toying with his hair. He rests his forehead against hers, stares into her eyes. “My grandma’s ring. It’s in a drawer at home. Well, it’s your ring now, I guess, if you want it.”

Laurel nods, smiles wide and bright. Her hands cover her mouth, surprise and shock in her eyes. He’s not sure she’s any more capable of coherent speech than he is. When she speaks her voice is barely more than an awed whisper. “Grandma Rosa? She gave you her ring?”

“She did,” Frank confirms, kisses Laurel again. “Told me she wouldn’t have let me have it if I was proposing to any other girl.”

Laurel laughs. “You better not be proposing to any other girls.”

“Technically I didn’t propose to you either,” he grins sheepishly. “She’s gonna be so pissed.”

Her grin is wicked and sharp, her eyes still teary. “You think if I asked Grandma Rosa she’d let me have the ring to give to you?”

“Nah,” he says. “She doesn’t like me as much as she likes you. So, whadda you say, you want it? The ring?”

She nods weakly, then more emphatically. “Yes. I do.”

He gives her a self-deprecating lopsided smile. “Well you gotta wait till we get home. But after that, I’ma put a ring on it.”

She laughs, reaches into her back pocket. “Here,” she says, holding her hand out to him. “After Joe called I was thinking. About, about doing that.”

He takes her hand as she trails off, lets her open her fingers to show him what’s inside.

“But I realized I didn't have a ring for you, if you said yes,” she says, dropping a small, crumpled piece of paper into his hand. Or, no, that’s not right, Frank decides, it’s rather a small, intricately folded piece of paper. He thinks it must be a page from a book, folded into a ring. “So I made one.”

“Origami?” he asks, turning the ring over in his hand, seeing all the delicate little folds and creases that slice words in half, allow only some of the message through.

“Yeah,” she says, hands still around his. “Sorry. It was kind of last minute. I couldn’t exactly pop over to the jewelry store.”

“What book’d you vandalize to make it?” He asks, glancing around conspiratorially, as though they’re going to get in trouble.

He continues to turn the ring over and over in his hands. It’s only paper, but it feels so damn heavy in his palm. It feels like the rest of his life and every moment leading up to this one, like every second of his life telescoping out, revolving from this point. It seems suddenly of deadly importance to know what book, what page, what line, Laurel chose.

Laurel’s lips tug into a smile. “I felt bad, so I bought it after I ripped the page out,” she whispers, still sounding guilty and reaches out to take his hands, pull the ring from his grasp and still his fingers. “That’s your extra present I guess.”

She takes the ring and they both chuckle nervously as Laurel slides it onto his finger. Frank stops breathing as she pushes it over his knuckle. He thinks maybe Laurel does too. He knows for sure her hands tremble. Nothing is different, and yet everything is different. It feels like he’s not even the same person, that he’s been stripped bare and replaced with a new and entirely different Frank, that apart from his love for Laurel, he’s not sure what else this new person should think or feel.

“It’s Pablo Neruda. Sonnet XVII,” she tells him, voice small, once the ring slides home. “I found it in Spanish.”

He turns the ring around his finger, over and over, feeling the paper slip over his skin. He looks at the words, wishes he could take them, absorb them into his skin. “If I find you a book, you wanna make one for yourself?”

Laurel’s smile is hesitant, but blinding. “What, Grandma Rosa’s ring isn’t good enough anymore?”

“Grandma Rosa’s ring is five hundred miles away. I want you to have something now.”

“By putting me to work?” she asks, sarcastically. “I have to make my own ring?”

“Please?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “C’mon, you already locked this down,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Gotta let me make it official too.”

“Fine, go find something,” she rolls her eyes but the look on her face is full of affection. He loves her for this, for letting him have this request. For doing everything completely backwards and completely right.

He finds the book he wants tucked on the bottom shelf two rows down. He can feel his heart still as he grasps it. He flips through it until he finds the chapter he’s looking for, then the page. He watches Laurel watch him; her lips are drawn into a thin line, no longer smiling, but the edges of her mouth quirk upwards, her head cocked to the side. Her eyes are clear now, and sharp.

Frank holds up the book, waving it gently. He wiggles his eyebrows at her, grinning as he fakes a cough and rips the page he wants, trying to disguise the sound.

Laurel gives a very unladylike snort, but takes the page from his hands when Frank offers.

“A bold choice, Delfino,” she kids, using the shelving to begin folding the page.

He quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Picking a book I’ve never even read.”

He shrugs. “Nothing else would be right. You want me to use a book you’ve read, fine, but it won’t be right.”

“Why this one though?” she asks as she slides her nail over the folds of the paper, creating these sharp little edges, these perfect little corners. Origami. Frank gets it now, why Laurel would find it calming. Being able to shape something in the way she wants it, through set, orderly steps, no need to worry about chaos or the unexpected. If she sets out to make a ring she won’t wind up with a crane as long as she follows the steps. It requires observation and detail and concentration and silence. He gets why she might be drawn to it as a child. She’s looking at him though, expecting an answer, hands still moving as though by rote over the paper.

Frank wants to tell her that it’s because love is sudden and jarring and violent and completely unexpected, sneaks up on you; but it’s also inevitable, as though it had existed within him for years just waiting for him to wake up to it, acknowledge that under his skin was a place reserved only for her, that he wasn't always aware, but he always loved her, blindly.

He’s gotta admit that when he glanced over Annalise’s roster that semester, saw the name Laurel Castillo, he wasn’t expecting the small, pale, quiet girl with the hair she used as a shield, a disguise, and the ever-watchful eyes; wonders what that says about him, about the man he used to be, that she took him by surprise the way she did. And how, once she did, it took barely anything before he loved her, how it wasn’t slow or gradual, not something that he eased into, not like stepping into the ocean; but instead, like he had, without even realizing it, tripped over the edge of something and was hurtling down into a depthless chasm, endlessly picking up speed, falling exponentially more in love with her as he did.

But he doesn't quite know how to say all that so instead he just tells her, “Because there isn’t any other way for love to be.”

And he just hopes that will be enough for her, that the same way she loves his dark places, she also knows his mind, knows the way it's both shocking and inevitable that he loves her, that she loves him in return.

He thinks maybe she’s going to challenge him about it, but instead she just holds up the finished ring.

He takes it from her, grasps her left hand. “Last chance, babe,” he says, holding the ring over her finger.

“I proposed to you, remember,” she tells him. “That would’ve been the place to back out.”

He nods, slipping the ring onto her finger. This time the moment feels a little less serious, a little easier. Frank decides it’s because this time there is no uncertainty, this time he is the one who acts and he’s not waiting for Laurel to change her mind and decide, no thanks, she’ll take her chances with someone else. And still, when the ring slips onto her finger he can feel his breath catch.

The ring is a little large, taking up most of the space between her palm and first knuckle, but Frank thinks it’ll do the trick, especially when she’s beaming at him like everything in the world is fucking perfect and she can’t believe her luck and he can’t do anything wrong.

He kisses her, tangles his hands in her hair. “This is a pretty fucking good bookstore,” he tells her, kisses her again. “We get books, a job and an engagement in like an hour and a half.”  
“There’s a coffee shop in the back too,” she says with a wicked little grin, glancing to the side to indicate the direction. “To really make it the perfect bookstore."

 

* * *

 

  
They’re pulling into to Laurel’s parents’ driveway when Frank finally broaches the inevitable subject of the elephant in the room.

“We gonna tell your folks about this?” he asks her, gesturing between them in the vague direction of their hands.

The look on Laurel’s face is like she’s been struck, horrified and fearful all at once. “No!” she breathes, sounding more like a gasp than anything. He’s half surprised she doesn’t slam on the brakes.

He nods, tries not to take it personally that she doesn't want to share this. But he knows he’s practically flying blind when it comes to her family, realizes he doesn’t actually know anything at all. He’s just smart enough to grasp that this is the kind of thing he should expect Laurel to balk at; giving up anything more than the most basic of information about her life, about her feelings.

“Ok, cool.” he says, trying not to sound hurt or disappointed. “Secret engagement, I like your style. Very soap opera.”

She smiles softly, glances at him then away. “Thank you. We can tell your family when we get back. And maybe my family too. But from Philly.”

He nods. “You're the boss. But what if someone notices?”

“They won't,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “Trust me.”

He thinks for half a moment about arguing that it seems unlikely to him that all the Castillos will manage to overlook the fact that he and Laurel have acquired matching paper rings. But Frank’s supposing a number of things that he maybe shouldn't be; that her family pays any real attention to her, that they do pay attention for more than self-serving purposes, that they care enough to ask about it. He suspects Hector probably would notice, would probably say something too, but maybe only if he thinks it will draw attention away from him. He's not willing to bet the farm Hector, or Adrian for that matter, won't bring up their newly acquired jewelry if it suits either of their purposes.

“They won't,” she insists again, voice cold, seeing Frank's incredulous look.

And he decides that ok, it’s her family and her life, and if she thinks they're not gonna notice, not gonna say anything, then it’s her risk to take. He’s just got to trust her, let her lead him through the wilderness.

And he thinks that maybe she might be on to something as they pull into the driveway and notice a new addition to the car collection in front of the Castillo’s house. It’s a black SUV, an Escalade, Frank guesses, with its back doors both swinging wide, left open. He gives Laurel a skeptical look as they park alongside it.

“Nessa’s used to nannies,” Laurel says by way of explanation.

“Who close doors for her?” Frank asks incredulously. He really doesn’t get rich people, Laurel excluded.

“Who wrangle her kids for her,” Laurel clarifies, getting out of the car and grabbing their various bags. She hands them over the roof of the car to Frank, smiles as he takes them without complaint.

Instead of going to the house, she goes over to the car, glances into the interior with an increasing frown. She calls something out in Spanish, waits a moment, then hoists herself up into the SUV.

“Luna?” Frank hears her call sternly. “You hiding in here?”

A little voice calls out from what Frank thinks is the backseat. “ _Tia_ Laurel?”

“You better get out here,” Laurel tells her, still stern, though something in her voice softens a degree or two. “Or I’m letting your brothers know where you're hiding.”

There’s a dramatic little groan and Laurel backs out of the car, a little dark haired girl leaping out after her, arms crossed and an exaggerated pout on her face.

Frank can’t help but grin at the mutinous look the little girl gives Laurel once she’s out. Laurel gives him a wide grin over Luna’s head, rolling her eyes affectionately.

“What were you doing in there, Luna?” Laurel asks, voice softening as her arm goes around Luna’s shoulder. Frank’s heart clenches as it does every time he sees her with one of his nieces or nephews, or a client’s kid, or the little boy who lives at the end of their hall. Laurel’s not perfect with kids, she’s sometimes too stiff and sometimes too serious, almost too self-consciously nervous around them, but she’s genuine and interested and he thinks kids can sense that, respond to her. And honestly, he fucking loves seeing her with kids, sometimes imagines how she’d be with _their_ kid, even though he’s not naïve enough to think it’s in the cards anytime soon. Still, he supposes, he’s allowed to imagine.

“They’re all in the pool,” Luna says petulantly. “I hate the pool.”

“And you thought the best place to be was hiding in the car?”

“I wanna go home,” she tells Laurel. “Florida is stupid.”

Laurel nods seriously. “Florida is stupid. But did you ask _Abuela_ to do something else? Or _Tio_ Hector?”

“No,” Luna mutters, frown growing deeper.

“Then who’s fault is it if you’re not having fun?” Laurel asks rhetorically.

Luna says nothing, continues to frown angrily at Laurel.

“Well what did you want to do?” Laurel asks, beginning to steer her niece in the direction of the house.

“Go back to Houston,” Luna tells her, kicking at the ground.

“Well that I can't help it you with,” Laurel says. “But, Frank and I will do something you want if you agree to do it in Florida.”

Luna stops her progress towards the house and looks at Laurel, something cunning in her eyes. “Who’s Frank?” She turns and seems to see him for the first time. “Are you Frank?”

“I am,” he tells her, bending near to her height and holding his hand out for her to shake.

She does with a pleased little grin. “Are you _Tia_ Laurel’s boyfriend?” She asks in a scandalized whisper, peering up at him and then over at Laurel.

“I am,” he repeats, trying to match her horrified tone.

“Do you like him?” Luna asks Laurel, still sounding like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s being told.

“Most of the time,” Laurel says casually.

“Does he snore?”

Frank snorts, practically chokes trying to keep himself from bursting out laughing. Laurel too is struggling to keep a straight face, trying not to laugh, her eyes widen with the effort it takes her to remain composed. “Sometimes, but you know what I do?” She asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I make him sleep on the couch.”

Luna’s smile is pleased. “What’s he good at?”

Laurel catches Frank’s eye over Luna’s head, raises her eyebrows at him. “He’s good at plenty of things. What do you think he's good at?”

“Does he make pancakes?”

“Pancakes?” Laurel repeats, like she’s not quite sure what Luna’s asking.

“Yeah.”

“He makes pancakes,” she confirms. “But I’m better at it.”

“But mine have things like chocolate chips on em,” Frank says, meeting Laurel’s glance, grinning.

“What else does he do?”

Laurel rolls her eyes, shrugs. “He’s pretty good at boxing.”

Boxing? Frank mouths at her, eyebrows raised. Laurel just shrugs kind of helplessly. Yup, not always great with kids, but she certainly tries.

Luna takes another appraising look at him. “Really?”

Frank nods seriously.

“Could you beat up my brothers?”

Frank grins despite himself. “I dunno. I heard your brothers are pretty scary.”

Luna scoffs, and gives Frank a derisive look, like she can't believe he’s capable of independent thought. “Not really.”

“Luna,” Laurel cuts in gently. “We don't beat people up. Even our brothers.”

Luna’s mulish look grows deeper. Frank can’t help but think she looks a little like Laurel, the way her eyebrows crease and pull together, the way the corners of her mouth turn down. But there’s something angry in Luna that he rarely sees in Laurel, something in this tiny child that lacks the calm determination Laurel seems to wear like armor; she’s all emotion where Laurel tries studiously to hide them, disguise them. “My brothers are dumb.”

“Mine too,” Laurel tells her, grinning at her like they’re sharing a secret. “But I don't beat them up.”

“ _Tio_ Hector?”

“Dumb,” Laurel says. “ _Tio_ Adrian too.”

Luna giggles, face softening. “Is Frank dumb?”

Laurel’s grin grows wide, though Frank sees her tries to smother it. She gives him a long affectionate smile. “Sometimes. I think all boys are dumb sometimes.”

Luna’s smile is huge and bright. “Me too.”

“So Lu, what do you wanna do if it's not the pool?”

“I wanted to play putt-putt,” Luna explains, a little less petulant now that she thinks she’s got a line on Laurel. “But the boys wouldn't play with me.”

“Putt-putt?” Laurel asks, sounding half-confused. “You mean playing on _Abuelo’s_ putting green?” And of fucking course, Frank thinks, Jorge Castillo has his own damn putting green, just like he has his own Jai Alai court. He wasn’t sure at first, wasn’t entirely convinced, but he’s starting to understand more and more why Laurel would willingly walk away from all this, would think that a place like this would corrupt her, turn her rotten. He thinks, even absent the money’s less than pristine sources, that it easily could.

Luna rolls her eyes. “Duh.”

Laurel flicks her fingers at her niece, sharply, but the gesture doesn’t seem mean. “Don’t ‘duh’ me or we won’t play.”

She looks to Frank, flashes him a smile that disappears before he’s even sure he’s seen it. “What do you say Frank, wanna get roped into golfing after all?”

He shrugs. How hard can putt-putt against a six year old be? And he thinks she’s certainly less dangerous than the rest of Laurel’s relatives.

“C’mon then,” she says to Luna, standing straight. “Let’s go find your mother and let her know you haven’t been eaten by a gator.”

Luna laughs, that wild cackle kids have when they think something is absolutely amazing, head tipped back and mouth wide.

He takes Laurel’s hand in his, feels the paper of her ring rasping against his skin. He can’t help but grin and he catches the surprised little glance she sends their joined hands when she feels the catch of paper against his hand as well, shocked and pleased.


	15. Chapter 15

They avoid going through the house, Laurel taking them around the outside to the pool. They can hear Laurel’s nephews before they see them, the wild shouts and shrieks and crashes of boys.

Laurel looks at him, widens her eyes comically. Franks thinks that these boys can’t be any worse than his nephews when they get some sugar in them or allow his brother Nicky to rile them up, so he squeezes her hand lightly.

They swing around the house and Luna drops Laurel’s other hand, darting ahead.

There are three boys standing at the edge of the pool; small, medium and large. The little one is probably about five, fair haired and pale. He’s bouncing eagerly on his toes, arms swinging wide with the effort. The middle one is probably a year or two older than Luna, tall and thin with dark wet hair that hangs down into his eyes and plasters against his face. He’s looking between his two brothers, taking the little one’s hand in his, gripping it tightly. The big one is blonde and husky, directing orders to the two younger ones. At some direction from him, all three leap off the pool’s edge into the water, tucking their knees up to their chests to maximize the splash. When they surface, the big one, Eric, Frank assumes, seems to notice Luna.

He gets a look on his face Frank recognizes all too well, a mean, vicious look tinged with calculating opportunism. Frank’s seen it too many times on the faces of every shitty thug he’s ever had to face in a dark alley, the look of a bully sniffing out a weaker opponent, seeing an opportunity to cause pain or gain power. He knows what’s coming before it happens. He thinks Laurel does too, feels her stiffen beside him and give a little resigned sigh. No one else is paying attention; the two other boys are bobbing up and down in the water, spitting water at each other and laughing. Frank looks over towards the house; Elena is still lying in her deck chair next to another woman that Frank supposes must be Laurel’s sister.

Eric treads water over to the side of the pool where Luna is running, pushing his hands out through the water to splash her as she runs past him. Luna freezes in shock, looks down at her soaked clothes and screams.

Frank watches the reaction of Laurel’s sister. She’s a thin woman, dark haired like the rest of her siblings, pretty he supposes, but without the steely strength he admires in Laurel. She sits up in the chair, assesses the situation; her son grinning viciously in the pool, her daughter soaked and horrified.

“Eric,” she barks. “Out. Now.”

He ignores her, splashes Luna again for good measure. This time she doesn't scream, but Frank can hear her little hiccuping sobs. Frank glances at Laurel out of the corner of his eye, she's frowning but otherwise doesn't seem overly engaged in what's going on, not particularly sympathetic towards Luna, though this seems exactly like the type of ongoing injustice he expects Laurel to respond to. He thinks again, and not for the last time, that he is completely lost, feels like he's operating blind. In the past twenty four hours, he's seen her step into the firing line for Hector, bail him out of situations he seems like he should be able to handle. And yet, she now appears more than willing to take on the role of observer in this seemingly unprovoked attack by her nephew.

“Eric,” Vanessa repeats, voice low and angry. “Get out of the pool or I swear to God you’re not getting a single present this year.”

He looks like he may protest, screwing up his face into a scowl, but turns and begins to swim towards his mother.

Luna takes this opportunity, this negotiated surrender by her brother, to launch herself into the pool, at Eric, fists flying even before she hits the water.

Frank sees her connect with a pretty impressive right hook to the side of Eric's face before he realizes what has happened and begins to fight back.

"Oh for God's sake," he hears Vanessa exclaim, sounding more tired and annoyed than concerned. "Both of you, out of the pool! Now! If either of you want to live to see double digits."

Luna gets in a final vicious punch as they go to their respective corners, both of them yelling insults at each other. He sees Vanessa give Laurel a nod with her chin towards Luna, as she moves to intercept Eric. Laurel heads towards the edge of the pool, waiting for Luna. Frank follows after her, not sure what role he should be playing in this family drama. In his parent’s house he and Laurel can mostly ignore the inevitable spats between his nieces and nephews; they're not his kids and he's hardly ever called on to intervene or mediate, so there's never much need for Laurel to make a choice about whether to team up with him or stay out of battles that aren't hers. But now, she's being dragged in to solve the Luna problem, and Frank isn't entirely sure his assistance won't be unwanted or seen as too forward with kids he's never met before. But as always, he puts his trust in Laurel, to tell him if he's unwanted or not needed and will stick with her till then.

When Eric pulls himself out of the pool Vanessa collars him, directs him towards the house with a string of words Frank can't hear but knows the tone is sharp.

The littler boys are at the opposite edge of the pool now, huddled together, staring wide-eyed at the goings on. Frank thinks the older one might be trying to comfort his little brother. Beside him, Laurel pulls a face, eyes wide and teeth bared, tongue out at the two of them. They giggle and stick their tongues out, the bigger one holding his mouth open with his fingers in a wide ugly grimace. Laurel mouths or signs something to them because they both leave the pool, settling together in a patio chair, still mugging at Laurel.

He glances towards the deck chair where Elena still lies, unmoving. He's not sure she's even twitched in acknowledgement of the battle raging between her grandchildren. He wonders what it would take to garner a reaction from her. He wonders too, if this is an indifference she perfected when her own children were small or simply something she feels she can employ with children that are not her own. Frank decides he doesn't really want to know the answer, but suspects it's probably the former given Laurel's almost pathological self-reliance and her nearly ever-present silence.

By this time, Luna has swum to the edge of the pool where he and Laurel stand, grabbing onto the tiled edge with her little hands. She looks at Laurel, grins up at her proudly.

"You heard you mom," Laurel tells Luna coldly. "Out."

Luna's face falls. "He started it," she practically spits, glaring at Laurel.

"And you finished it," Laurel says, voice turning positively frigid. "And now you're both in trouble, so what did it get you?"

Frank gives Laurel an appraising look. He thinks she may be trying to give Luna strategic advice, might be more disappointed that Luna has relinquished the high ground for such an insubstantial victory than angry at her violence. He thinks that would probably be a very Laurel thing to be angry about; that Luna was so reactionary, and that she gave away that she was hurt for little in the way of gain beyond a few glancing punches.

"That's unfair," Luna begins, hoisting herself up and out of the pool.

"Nope," Laurel cuts her off. "It's completely fair. What did I tell you? We don't beat up our brothers."

Luna sticks her tongue out at Laurel, shakes herself like a dog so that water goes flying everywhere, splattering Laurel.

Laurel, as Frank expects, doesn't react beyond flicking a drop of water from the corner of her eye.

"Do you remember what room you're staying in?" Laurel asks her.

"No."

Laurel sighs. “Then we're gonna go find Paola and ask. And you're going to apologize for tracking water all over the floor.” She looks around. “I don't suppose you have a towel out here, do you?”

“No,” Luna tells her, still spitting with anger. “I hate the pool.”

“Should've thought of that before jumping in,” Laurel tells her, though all the heat is gone from her words. “Borrow Marco’s.”

“I don't want to,” Luna tells her, standing there, unmoving with her arms crossed.

“And I don't care,” Laurel responds automatically. “Either get a towel or you're standing out here till you dry off.”

Luna, of course, stomps off after her brother's towel.

Laurel turns to him. “So, you actually want one of those?”

He swallows hard, thinks the question may be more loaded than it initially appears, than Laurel’s casual, skeptical tone may bely. Frank’s not an idiot, knows he has to answer this seriously and honestly, can't make it into a joke without things going horribly pear-shaped. And since he’s being honest, Frank thinks that despite the general unruliness of her niece and nephews so far, he’s pretty sure that he and Laurel would make some damn awesome babies. “With you? Totally.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a heaviness, a significance in her gaze. Frank hopes she can see herself having a kid or three with him; maybe, someday, isn't totally turned off the idea because of her childhood, her parents, her own lingering anxieties about what family means.

“Will you keep an eye on those two for a minute?” She asks him, nodding towards her two nephews, now somehow absorbed in something playing on a cell phone.

“Seriously?” Frank asks her.

“Please?” she asks again. “Nessa’ll be back out soon enough and I’ve got to get this one dried off.”

Frank fakes a pout, scowls. “What’re their names again?”

“Leo and Marco,” she says pointing to the two boys in turn. “They’re mostly harmless.”

“I’m gonna ask them to tell me about every embarrassing thing they know about you.”

Laurel’s grin is challenging. “Lucky they're four and seven. They barely know how to tie their shoes.”

“Doesn't mean I won’t try,” he tells her as she takes Luna by her toweled shoulders and begins ushering her into the house.

He goes over to the two little boys, sits down in the deck chair next to them. The older one, Marco, glances over at him briefly, assessing him, but apparently decides Frank’s not terribly interesting, and he turns his focus back to whatever's playing on the phone.

Frank can’t hear the sound well enough to tell what the boys are listening to, but he hears their high pitched giggles and snorts well enough.

He half wants to interrupt them, start talking to them so that they don’t feel like they’re being watched by some random stranger. But both boys seem completely unconcerned about Frank’s presence, seem to accept his existence in the lawn chair next to them as a fact of life, and seem totally engrossed in their video. So instead he idly watches them, watches Elena, still unmoving, and waits.

Within a few minutes, Vanessa, as promised, emerges again from the house, Eric strutting ahead of her, going straight back into the pool.

Marco and Leo look up from the phone screen, glance between their mother and brother and go back to the screen. Vanessa glances at her mother briefly, a flash of something Frank can’t name crossing her face. She comes towards Frank, folding herself into the chair next to him, setting herself between the boys. They part for her, almost instinctively, barely taking their eyes from the phone screen, allow her to take a seat, then lean their tiny bodies into hers, draping themselves over her lap, her arms. Frank is struck by how fluid all three of their movements are, how synchronized to each other, wonders if he will ever be so close with another person that he will be able to coordinate his movements to theirs based on blind familiarity.  
Vanessa smooths both boys’ hair from their faces, smiling softly as they flinch and frown away from her. Then she turns to Frank.

“So you’re Frank,” she says, her words a statement, not a question.

“I’m Frank,” he confirms.

She hums. “I’m Vanessa, Laurel’s sister. These two knuckleheads are Leo and Marco. That one’s Eric,” she says, gesturing towards the pool “And Luna you met, of course.”

“She seems pretty spunky,” Frank offers.

Vanessa rolls her eyes. “She’s always pissed about something, poor thing. Three brothers will do that,” she laughs. “I suppose I’d know.”

“At least you and Laurel had each other, right?” Frank prompts.

“Not really,” she admits. “Seven years is a big gap. When I needed an ally, she was too young to be of much use, and when she needed one, I was halfway out of the house and had no time for her.”

“Bad timing,” Frank tries, not really sure what to say. Vanessa, so far, seems the least dangerous of all Laurel’s relatives. Distracted and frazzled, certainly, but not dangerous or ill-intentioned.

She shrugs. “Honestly, not really. I think it served us both to be on our own. We both got out. Mostly,” she clarifies with a half-smile, gesturing at the house. “And look at the boys, they had each other and they’re still stuck.”

Frank says nothing. He wants to ask if the goal was to get out, and why. But he knows the answers, or knows Laurel’s answers at least, and that's all he needs. He wants too, to ask if Laurel sees it the same way, if she thinks that lacking an ally made her stronger, better able to resist whatever corrupting influence Jorge, or the house, or Florida itself had, because, if Frank’s being honest with himself, he’s pretty sure that’s not the case. Pretty sure what Laurel needed more than anything was to feel like she wasn’t alone, wasn’t unheard and ignored for who and what she was instead of what people expected her to be.

Vanessa’s giving him a look, like she’s thinking hard about something, about him. “You and L, that’s serious, right?”

Frank nods, not trusting his voice not to betray what happened earlier.

“I’m glad,” she says. “She deserves something good.”

“I’m not sure anyone’s ever called me good for their daughter, sister, whatever, before,” Frank says with a chuckle.

Vanessa shrugs. “Take the compliment, Frank. And I know I'm not going on much, but she made you watch these two while she went in with Luna. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t say a thing about it, huh?”

It’s Frank’s turn to shrug.

“L’s had enough fights,” is all she says by way of explanation, though Frank’s certain it’s not actually an explanation at all.

She looks like she’s going to say more, but the video has ended and the two boys begin jawing over what to watch next, Marco yanking the phone away from his brother so that he can be the one to choose.

“Nope,” Vanessa tells them, plucking the phone from her son. “Back to the pool you two. Go bother your brother.”

They go without much complaint, though the little one gets in a kick to his brother’s shin as he gets off the chair that he makes look almost accidental.

“So, how’re you liking Florida so far?” She asks after Marco and Leo have flung themselves into the pool and begun trying to dunk their older brother.

“Honestly?” Frank asks. “Me and your kid seem to have pretty similar feelings.”

Vanessa rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of staging a mutiny too.”

“It has crossed my mind,” Frank tells her, leaving out that if anyone’s planning a mutiny, he’s pretty certain it will be Laurel.

He anticipates that Vanessa probably knows this already.

“You’re only staying till Sunday, right?” she asks him.

“Yeah, gotta get back to work. And we’ve got New Year’s plans in Philly.”

“And Laurel hates it here,” Vanessa adds pointedly. “Does that maybe have something to do with it too?”

Frank stares back at her impassively. “Take it up with her if it does.”

Vanessa makes a noise that might be agreement. “I think that might be one of the only things Hector, Laurel and I have in common.”

“Not Adrian?”

Vanessa laughs sharply. “No, not Adrian.”

“Why’d you bother coming down here then?” Frank asks her pointedly.

She looks at him for a long moment. He thinks she’s deciding how much to tell him. “I think everyone hates coming back to their childhood home, I think it's a part of life,” she finally says, though it sounds like a lie, like she’s telling Frank what she thinks he wants to hear.

“I see my folks every weekend. I love it over there,” he tells her.

Vanessa says nothing, just regards Frank impassively.

“And I don't think that’s Laurel’s reason for hating this place either,” he ventures, returning her gaze.

“Take that up with her,” she says in an echo of his earlier words, but there’s still something evasive behind Vanessa’s statement, a closing of ranks that Laurel’s siblings seem to do instinctively when Frank seems to get too close to the heart of their strained relationships, their fear and anger and bitterness and hurt.

Frank can’t tell if they’re protecting themselves, or Laurel or their father, but he can tell he’s been circling something since he arrived in Florida, something none of them want to talk about, but keep alluding to, like a secret that’s been eating away that them, a crime they’re dying to confess. He thinks Laurel’s the only one that actually wants to see it buried, whatever it is, the only one willing to see the body go undiscovered and the mystery, whatever it is, remain unsolved. Frank figures that Laurel, as in most things, probably has the right of it.


	16. Chapter 16

Laurel and Luna eventually emerge from the house, the little girl now in dry clothes, but still looking angry and miserable.

Luna flings herself into the chair with her mother with a huff.

Vanessa glances at Luna appraisingly then just hands over the phone she took from the boys. “If I hear one more complaint out of you I’m letting _Tio_ Hector teach you how to chop onions.”

Luna looks absolutely rage-filled, but wisely chooses to stay quiet. Laurel sits silently at the foot of Frank’s deck chair, one hand going to his knee as he twists his legs to make room for her.

“God, she reminds me of you,” Vanessa says to Laurel once Luna becomes entranced by the phone screen. “I hate it.”

“I was never that angry,” Laurel says flatly.

“You were,” Vanessa insists. “You were just quiet about it.”

“I think I had reason to be,” Laurel says, an edge creeping into her voice, and again, Frank thinks they’re talking in code about something significant, he can feel the specter of the weight the words carry in the back of his mind, but still doesn’t know why.

“You did,” Vanessa agrees, holding Laurel’s gaze. “Doesn't mean I didn’t hate you for it.”

Laurel hums softly, pushes her hair away from her face. Frank, for all he tries, doesn't think he can imagine Laurel truly angry. He’s seen her angry, sure, but it’s always justified and it’s always a weary, righteous anger, always tinged with something Frank concludes must be sadness, never this hot, directionless rage like Luna’s. Laurel sees injustice, sees stupidity and sometimes gets angry, but then she solves it, finds an outlet for her anger in fixing the problem. He can’t imagine her being angry and staying angry, wallowing in her fury. It seems so unlike Laurel as to be almost impossible.

And even when he imagines her as a child, from the little he’s gathered, she was quiet and sad, a lonelier version of the Laurel he knows. He can’t imagine her going through an angry, angsty punk or goth or even emo phase; he thinks all that is too demonstrative for Laurel, gives too much of her thoughts away to be something she’d find attractive.

But really, what does Frank know, he’s seen maybe three pictures of Laurel between the ages of three and eighteen, has only her admittedly scanty word to go on. She might’ve had purple hair, a lip ring and a penchant for joyriding in other people’s cars. Except she doesn’t have a rap sheet, even a sealed juvenile one; _that_ much Frank knows. And that means, whatever Laurel was as a child, she was always cautious, always smart. That, at least, didn’t change.

“How’s Brian?” Laurel is asking Vanessa, wisely changing the subject. “Is he going to make it out this year?”

“He’s fine, except that he’s on-call this year for Christmas.”

Laurel frowns, makes a sympathetic noise. “That must suck.”

“It wouldn’t suck if we were in Houston,” Vanessa says with a bitter smile. “What sucks is trying to get four kids on a plane to Florida with no help.”

“And not deliberately losing one at the airport?” Laurel says, trying not to grin.

“Well, yes, that’s certainly a struggle, especially with this one,” she says with a look down at Luna that she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why didn't you stay home?” Laurel asks. “I doubt Elena would hold it against you, and dad, well,” she shrugs.

“He’ll hold anything against you if it’ll serve him,” Vanessa finishes. “I don't really know. It just seemed like more trouble than it was worth to explain to Brian why I was backing out.”

Laurel’s smile is quick and sharp. “Chickenshit.”

Vanessa laughs, startling Frank who was not expecting that reaction from her. “Probably.”

“It’s ok,” Laurel says then, still grinning wide. She turns and scoots back in the deck chair, giving Frank a warning glance as she wedges herself into the chair beside him, silently asking him to make room for her. He does and the end result has her kind of half leaning on him, half on the chair, but it’ll work and he’s not too uncomfortable, so fine. “I tried to convince Frank we should go to the Keys instead. Still trying, if we’re being technical about it.”

“And?” Vanessa asks him. “What’s the verdict on bailing to the Keys, Frank?”

He half shrugs. “I’m just along for the ride, this is Laurel’s show.”

“Good answer,” Vanessa tells him. “You’ll do well at Castillo Christmas.”

“I dunno if that’s a compliment or not,” Frank says, trying to make it sound like a joke, thinking he’s failed.

Both Laurel and Vanessa open their mouths to respond, but as they do, the littlest boy, Leo, comes running up to them, trailing water behind them.

“Mommy,” he calls as he comes close. “I’m hungry.”

“Hungry?” she asks, feigning shock.” You just ate.”

Leo does a little shimmy, bouncing on his toes in front of his mother. “But I’m hungry again.”

Vanessa sighs, turns to Laurel. “Will you handle him. Please?”

Laurel gives her sister a mulish look, scowls, but stands, calling out to the two other boys. “Either of you want food?”

They appear to ignore her, but Luna looks up. “I want food,” she announces.

“Well c’mon then kid,” Laurel tells her. “Before you two starve.”

Frank looks from Laurel to her sister, stands and goes with her.

Laurel, frankly, looks surprised that he’s decided to accompany her, but pleased, smiling at him from the corner of her mouth, letting him take her hand briefly as they head towards the house.

“Hey,” he asks, as Luna and Leo trip ahead of them, darting towards the house. “Is your mom ok?”

Laurel glances over towards Elena, glances back too quickly. “She’s fine,” Laurel says shortly, stooping to pick up a towel for Leo.

Frank nods. “Ok,” he says, not entirely convinced.

“So,” she asks as they enter the kitchen. “What do you two want to eat?”

The two kids share a look, seeming to Frank like they communicate without speaking, have a long and complicated discussion without either he or Laurel picking up on anything. “Chicken nuggets,” Luna announces.

Laurel raises her eyebrows at the two of them. “I dunno if _Abuela_ put that on the list,” she heads to the non-booze fridge, swinging it open to look inside. “Anything else?”

The kids have another silent conversation, heads close together. “Grilled cheese?” Luna asks.

Laurel turns from the fridge and grins, holding the door open with one arm. “That, my little monsters, I think we can do.”

Leo grins and runs to join Laurel at the fridge, peering under her arm at the contents.

“What kinda cheese you want little man?” she asks him.

Leo steps up on the bottom of the fridge, pulling himself up to get a better view. He pulls a drawer open and looks inside.

“What’s that?” he asks, and Frank thinks he must be pointing at something. Leo looks back up and he and Laurel begin what seems to be an intense discussion about whatever he’s found inside the fridge.

Frank turns to look at Luna, hanging back. “You have any cheese preferences?” he asks her, giving her a wide smile, trying to warm her up, get her out of whatever funk Florida has put her in.

Luna shrugs. “Cheese.”

He affects a horrified gasp. “There’s thousands of kinds of cheeses. You gotta pick. Or I think your  _Tia_ will make yours with Limburger.”

Luna looks at him suspiciously.

“You know Limburger, right?” he teases, giving her another encouraging smile.

“It’s super stinky,” Luna tells him, wrinkling her nose.

“It is,” Frank confirms, mimicking her disgusted face. “And if you don’t tell her not to, I think _Tia_ Laurel is gonna make your sandwich with Limburger.”

Luna’s face breaks into the start of a grin. “No she won't,” she insists.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Frank tells her, warningly. “She's made me plenty before.”

Frank sees Laurel turn away from the fridge, a small block of cheese in her hand, apparently having sorted Leo out with his choice, because he’s holding a loaf of bread above his head happily. But then Laurel’s looking at him with something raw and open in her gaze, something longing, significant. There’s a sudden tightness in Frank’s throat and he’s pretty damn sure he couldn't tear his gaze away from Laurel if he tried.

“You guys settle on anything?” she asks, and there's a tight catch in her voice. She’s still holding Frank’s eyes as though there’s nothing else in the world. He wonders if sometimes Laurel looks at him and can see him with _their_ kid, the way he sometimes does, if she looks at him with her niece and imagines what it’d be like with one that they made, if she can see them being parents someday. She never mentions it if she does, and aside from these occasional looks he catches her giving him when she thinks he doesn't notice, Laurel’s never given any indication that kids are even something she’s considered as more than a distant possibility, and certainly not something she’s considered more likely because of him.

“Not Limburger,” Frank tells her, feeling the hiccup in his voice, the low rough edge to his words, tries to shake off the lingering mix of sadness and hope that shoots through him and settles low in his gut.

She smiles, softly at him, moves her eyes away from him and turns her attention to Luna. “You ok with Cheddar and Muenster kiddo?”

“Monster?” Luna echoes. “Monster cheese?”

“Yup,” Laurel tells her. “Grilled cheese with monster cheese for you two monsters. Sound good?”

Luna and Leo both giggle at that, nodding vehemently

“You guys want anything else on your sandwiches?” Laurel asks, going to a cupboard and removing two frying pans. “Bacon? Tomato? We got some chocolate chips, olives, pretzels maybe?”

They both giggle again, looking positively scandalized at the offer.

“Bacon,” Leo says as Luna makes a face.

“Just cheese,” she insists.

“Ok,” Laurel says, taking the butter from the fridge and the loaf of bread from her nephew’s hands. “We got one straight cheese and one bacon. What about you Frankie D?”

“Frankie D!” Leo exclaims as though that’s the funniest name he’s heard in his life.

He gives Laurel a mocking smile, rolls his eyes at the name; she knows how much he hates when people calls him that. “I think I’m gonna go with my man Leo here and go bacon.”

Laurel grins, hands Frank a pan. “You wanna handle cooking it then?”

He shares a look with Leo. “You hear that, she’s puttin’ me to work.”

The little boy giggles again. “Bacon’s easy,” he tells Frank seriously.

“Oh really?” Frank asks, bugging his eyes out at the boy. “You gonna be in charge then? Show me how to cook it right?”

Leo nods emphatically.

“Cool,” he says and holds out his fist for Leo to pound.

Laurel passes by him then, knocks his hip with hers, the whisper of a smile on her lips. “Less hype, more cooking.” She flips a burner on, adds a healthy square of butter to the pan, letting it begin to sizzle. “Luna, you want to get the milk out, pour a glass for you and your brother?”

Frank’s honestly a little surprised when she complies without complaint, pulling down both the jug of milk and two glasses, even though she has to stretch for both.

“Frank?” Laurel asks, heading to the fridge that last night was stocked full of alcohol. “Too early for beer?”

He chuckles lightly. “It’s like three, we’re on vacation. Why not?”

Laurel’s grin is wide. “That’s what I like to hear.” She grabs two bottles, passes one to Frank.

He hunts around for the bottle opener, eventually giving up and popping the cap against the counter. Both Luna and Leo turn toward him at the sound of the bottle against the counter, mouths falling open in shock and glee when they realize what he’s done. Frank feels maybe like he’s gotten away with something, like maybe he’s halfway to corrupting Laurel’s niece and nephew because they look positively scandalized.

Laurel gives him a look that might be chastising, but pops her own bottle against the counter as well when she thinks the kids aren’t looking. Frank salutes her with the bottle with a smirk.

She tries to ignore him, but can’t help the smile that splits her face as she turns away to the stove.

Frank moves next to her, flipping the stove on and setting his pan on top of the flame. “Leo, you think you can track down the bacon for me?” Frank calls out.

He scampers towards the fridge and pulls out half a package, holding it out to Frank like it’s the holy grail. “Awesome. Let’s fry these puppies up.”

Eventually they wind up with three pretty fantastic looking grilled cheese sandwiches. Leo and Luna climb up the counters to sit there, little legs swinging in the air. Leo takes huge bites, lets the cheese stretch out in long strings. Luna is slightly more dainty, except she dunks her sandwich in her milk, letting it soften into a soggy mess before she eats it.

He and Laurel each take half of the leftover sandwich, though in the end she winds up giving him the last few bites of her half, letting him eat it from her fingers while the two kids groan and roll their eyes.

They’re just finishing up washing the pans, putting Luna and Leo in charge of drying and putting things away, when Laurel’s dad seemingly appears out of nowhere in the kitchen.

Laurel looks up, startles, but manages to keep a hold of the glass she's washing, though Frank can see her grip it so hard her knuckles turn white, even in the hot water that had otherwise turned her fingers red and pruned.

The kids, on the other hand, seem positively delighted by this development.

“ _Abuelo!_ ” they both call out when they notice Jorge in the kitchen.  
“ _Niños!_ ” he calls, stooping down to their level as they rush forward into his arms. “I’ve been looking all over the house for you. And here you are, but you’re so big I barely recognize you.”

They both giggle, even Luna, practically drape themselves off Jorge as he stands, still holding both of them, placing kisses against their squirming cheeks and heads and hands.

“When I got back and didn’t see you, I was so worried,” he tells them, and normally Frank thinks this is where adults do that overwrought hyper-demonstrative thing with kids, over-exaggerate everything because they think kids are idiots. But not Jorge, he seems like maybe he’s truly genuine. Frank thinks that maybe this is where Laurel learned it from, talking to kids with genuine interest. “I thought Christmas would be completely ruined, because my favorite grandchildren hadn’t made it down to see me.”

Luna and Leo share a glance, giggle again, and Luna pipes up. “You mean you like us better than Eric and Marco?” she asks, sounding absolutely delighted, no doubt eagerly anticipating sharing that little tidbit with her brothers later for maximum damage.

“I love all my grandchildren equally,” he says, but gives Luna an exaggerated wink, a wide smile that shows off his eye teeth.

“But some of them more equally than others.”

The two of them share another look, again burst out laughing.

“So _cariños,_ how was your flight?” Jorge asks, now holding a child tucked under each of his arms, taking them and spinning them around.

Frank grins despite himself. Next to him, he can feel Laurel unclench slightly, sees her small, tentative smile. He decides, if you could overlook, or simply didn't know about what Jorge got up to outside this house, he was probably a pretty excellent dad; is clearly a great grandfather. He can see why Laurel still loves him, fights with herself not to, but can’t make herself forget that _this,_ this warm, funny, affectionate person was the man who raised her, despite the creeping menace and violence and threats.

Frank wonders too, when things changed. When Jorge would begin to switch from this man to the one who is clearly still taking it personally that Laurel doesn’t want the life he wants for her, who is clearly of half a mind to simply force her to do what he wants except he can’t figure out the proper leverage or the moves he needs to outflank her. Frank wonders too, when being his child was no longer enough for Jorge, and when demands and requirements started creeping into the relationship and it started being about gains and losses, usefulness and value, and more about business and money and power than anything else. Because it’s clear to Frank from the way he’s interacting with his grandkids that this man can feel love and affection as more than a currency in his business, and yet, that is almost entirely absent in his dealings with his adult children, and Frank is left confused at the difference, at the change.

“Hi dad,” Laurel says then, caution in her words. “I didn't know you were back. I thought you were golfing with Adrian all day.”

“We skipped drinks and came home. Your mother hates when I come to dinner at the club looking like I came from the course,” he says with weary affection. “So I will shower and change and then go back for the awards. And dinner of course.”

Laurel hums, lets the subject go.

Jorge pauses in his efforts to swing Leo and Luna wider, turns to regard Laurel thoughtfully. “Were you and Frank practicing, _mija?_ ” he asks, with maybe a teasing grin, Frank honestly can’t tell, spinning the kids again.

“Practicing?” she asks, clearly confused.

“For when you have your own children,” he elaborates.

“Dad,” Laurel says, and it doesn’t sound to Frank’s ears like an embarrassed groan, the kind he often has when his mom brings up giving her more grandkids, but more like a sharp warning.

“What?” Jorge asks, carefully sculpted expression of innocence on his face, setting Luna and Leo down with only minimal protest from them. “You and Frank, a man who says he is serious about you, are in here with the children, cooking for them while their mother sits outside. I can only assume this is by choice and that choice is motivated by certain things, namely that you anticipate having children with this man.”

“Dad,” Laurel says again, and theres’s a steel in her voice that Frank is unused to hearing, a tension he doesn’t like. “You know how Nessa gets with all four of them. We wanted to let her have a break.”

Jorge gives her a look, angry and cunning, but seems to let things go for now. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at his grandchildren, who giggle. “Never ask your _Tia_ a question she doesn’t want to admit the answer to. You know,” he says, seemingly speaking to them, but Frank’s not dumb enough to accept that, knows he’s directing his words towards Laurel instead. “I think that’s why she wants to be a lawyer, hmmmm, so she can ask all the questions, never has to answer any herself.”

Whatever it is that Jorge’s getting at, whatever hints he’s dropping for Laurel, it works. She stiffens again, goes pale beside Frank, and he sees her hands clench into fists at her side. But Laurel says nothing, and instead she gets that distant look in her eyes like she’s taking herself a million miles away, floating above herself.

Jorge smiles, raises his eyes to Laurel, the look in them hard and cruel, but says nothing, savoring what seems to be his temporary victory. He turns his attention back to his grandchildren. “What did _Tia_ and Frank make for you two? Was it delicious?”

“Grilled cheese,” Leo announces. “With bacon.”

“Bacon?” Jorge echoes. “How exciting. You two are lucky you’re young enough to still enjoy bacon without worry.”

Frank turns his focus away from them and to Laurel. Her hands are no longer clenched, but her left hand is at her lips and her right is gripping the counter behind her.

“You ok?” he asks softly, leaning into her.

She nods, blinking rapidly. She turns away, facing the counter and the sink and picks up the little paper rings they’d set aside to wash the dishes. Laurel silently holds Frank’s out to him, a question lingering in her eyes, slipping her own on with a deep breath. He holds her gaze as he puts his own on his finger, careful not to hesitate. He has never had a single doubt about her, hopes he never will, regardless of the things that may surround her.

“Laurel,” Jorge says then. “Will you take these two back outside? I think they’re ready to swim again.”

Laurel gives him a long, hard look, seemingly judging his intentions. “C’mon then kiddos. Let’s get back out there and tire you out for dinner.”

She opens her arms for Luna and Leo, ushering them out towards the door. Frank turns to go with her.

“Not you Frank,” Jorge calls when he’s halfway to the door, when there’s no mistaking Frank’s intentions. “I’d like to have that talk with you now.”

Frank pauses, considers ignoring him, but stops, turns. There is no avoiding the inevitable, that much he knows, much as he wishes he could. He meets Laurel’s eyes as he turns back to Jorge, sees them widen, sees her frown deeply. He shrugs helplessly. He doesn't think she can see a way out of this either.

“I’ll come find you when I’m done,” Frank tells her carefully, trying to make it sound casual.

She nods, still frowning, eyebrows drawn together. But she takes the two kids by their shoulders, steers them out the door and back towards the pool. Frank tries to ignore the stiffness in her gait, the sense of impending dread settling in his stomach. He runs a hand through his beard slowly, waits for the attack to come.

“Come Frank,” Jorge says when the door to the patio has shut firmly behind Laurel. “We can talk in my office. It’s much more comfortable.”

Jorge seems to glance at the empty beer bottles he and Laurel have left on the counter, goes to the fridge and removes two more, handing one to Frank. “Relax,” he tells Frank. “This will not take long.”

Frank wants to tell Jorge that that’s all well and good, but neither does an execution. He decides against it however, thinks that is probably not a comparison he wants to be making right now. So he lets Jorge lead him through the house to a small, dark room with inset shelving and a large wooden desk with three comfortable looking desk chairs arranged around it. Jorge lets Frank enter behind him, then shuts the office door with an echoing that sounds to Frank a little like a gunshot.

Jorge sits behind the desk, places his beer atop a stack of papers and indicates to Frank that he should take a seat in one of the other chairs.

Frank ignores the invitation, remains standing, lets himself lean casually against the bookshelves. Jorge either ignores the slight or files it away for use later.

“You love my daughter, yes?” Frank is asked without preamble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's where things start to go downhill. Like, not a plummet (because honestly, nothing in this fic goes fast...), but it's a pretty steady descent into low-grade (and occasionally high-grade) misery from here on out.  
> And then things will be in suck-city for a while. Not just cause of the impending chat, but in a few chapters we're gonna get some new people popping up to ruin Xmas Grinch-style...


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go guys, the long-awaited chat...

“Yeah,” Frank answers. He thinks a smarter man would lie, but he is not a smarter man, not where Laurel is concerned. “I do.”

“Good,” Jorge tells him, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “You would do whatever is necessary to protect her?”

“I would.”

“Good,” he repeats, takes a long swallow of beer, indicates that Frank should as well. “Because there is a thing I would like to ask of you, a thing that will help protect her. Do you think it is something you could do?”

“Not if I don't know what I’m agreeing to, not if I don't know what I’d be protecting her from,” Frank says harshly, trying to cut through the circular conversation, these hints without answers.

“You would protect her from being reminded of things she wishes to forget, from being forced to make choices she should not be asked to make,” Jorge says, again cryptic.

Frank wants to hit him, clenches his fists tightly, wishing he’d just shatter the beer bottle in his fist. He wants to make someone just tell him what the fuck everyone is hiding, protecting. He thinks whatever it is, whatever thing they think they can’t even speak of, it’s torn this fucking family; Laurel and Hector certainly, but Jorge and Elena and Vanessa and Adrian too, completely apart. He thinks they’d probably have been better off letting it come to the light, thinks that whatever it is, it can’t be so bad as the suffering they’re doing now, still.

“I don't know what that means,” Frank says instead, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his weight more fully against the bookcase. He’s not going to agree to anything, he knows that, but he feels it's important somehow to know what is being asked of him, and why. To know what Jorge Castillo thinks is so important he needs to ask his daughter’s boyfriend to do it, a man he’s never met, why there is no one else who can carry this out. To know, really, and most importantly, what it is Laurel is hiding, what it is she tries to strangle in the dark, but that comes back again and again, zombie-like, creeping along after her.

“I know. But I don't think this is a position you're entirely unused to, is it?” Jorge asks, giving Frank an appraising look.

Frank makes sure he doesn’t react.

Jorge hums low in his throat. “You’re a smart man, Frank,” he says. “So I will tell you as much as I can, as much as I think you need to know. And if you find you need to know more, I will do my best to answer those questions too. But, I’m sure you have realized this, sometimes it is better to know less, hmmm?”

“Get on with it,” Frank tells him stiffly.

Jorge smiles, shark-like. “I’m sure you can tell that my family, my business is very wealthy. We enjoy a great deal of notoriety, yes?”

“Certainly seems so.”

“Yes,” Jorge agrees. “And there are people who wish to destroy that wealth, who wish to topple great things that others have made. Who think that to have made so much wealth there must be something ugly, corrupt at its roots. You know this too?”

Frank nods, puts his beer to his lips and takes a sip, watching Jorge over the rim of the bottle.

“There is a man who I would like you to speak to,” Jorge tells him. “I would have you convince him that my business, my family, is not that corrupt thing he thinks.”

“Why me?” Frank asks. “I don't know a damn thing about your family, save Laurel, and even less about your business.”

Jorge smiles even wider, looks pleased that Frank has not closed the door completely on agreeing. “Because I can trust you I think. And because he will not talk to me, or my associates.”

“He’s afraid of you, you mean,” Frank says, worried he’s taking a risk by saying this aloud, by giving voice to the fear he knows Jorge rules with. “Won't let you into his office, bolts when you approach him in public.”

Jorge laughs, surprisingly lightly. “Yes, I am sure that is part of it,” he says, waving a hand dismissively, as though it's of no consequence that someone would be scared of him, as though there is no reason for it.

“So you need an unfamiliar face. To tell him what?”

“To tell him to stop looking into the past. To leave it dead and buried if he’s a smart man,” he says, very carefully, as though this is something Frank should memorize, recite exactly as told to him.

“And if he won't?” Frank asks, knowing they’re now coming close to the heart of things.

“Frank,” Jorge says, something like chastisement in his voice, as though he’s now disappointed in Frank’s reading of the conversation. “You are a fix-it man, yes? You will think of something to convince him, I’m sure.”

“And what exactly,” Frank asks slowly, watching Jorge carefully. “Will happen if I can’t?”

“Doors are opened that should remain firmly closed,” he tells Frank carefully, eyes narrowing slightly and Frank wonders if it’s fear behind that involuntary movement.

“Doors where?”

Jorge shrugs slightly, smiles openly at Frank, palms out.

“So I just gotta to take your word for it that it’ll hurt Laurel?”

“If you must,” Jorge says, sounding half apologetic, going to his beer again.

“Whatever it is must’ve happened ages ago,” Frank says, fishing and gauging the reaction of the man in front of him. “Laurel took off at eighteen, so anything that happened after then shouldn't matter to her. And after so many years, that’s more than you screwing someone out of a plot of land or a lucrative contract.”

“It was,” Jorge confirms, face impassive.

“So who do I need to convince?”

“Ah,” Jorge says, face breaking out into a grin, thinking he’s hooked Frank. Frank thinks he’s drastically underestimated his daughter; her judgement and her foresight if he thinks this is all it will take to catch Frank’s interest, convince him to assist in this endeavor. “That you will like I think, if I have judged you correctly.”

He goes to a drawer in his desk, opens it and removes a picture, holds it out to Frank.

Frank, reluctantly, feeling like he’s betraying Laurel even by looking, approaches. He takes the picture, sits, registering Jorge’s pleased grin when he does. Frank holds his gaze a moment too long, then looks at the proffered picture.

A man, about Jorge’s age, pale and blonde, with a craggy face. He’s wearing a blue suit, a red tie, too perfectly nondescript in what’s clearly a professional picture, eyes too sharp. Frank drops the picture as though he’s been burned, practically flings it between himself and Jorge on the desk.

“He’s a Fed,” Frank says, hearing his heartbeat pounding in his ears, voice sounding distant.

“That’s correct,” Jorge says, very carefully, very casually.

“You want me to convince a Fed not to investigate you.”

“That’s correct,” Jorge repeats.

“And you expect me to do this without getting arrested?” Frank asks with a laugh he thinks sounds mocking and bitter. “More important for you, you expect me to do this without making the problem worse, turning this guy’s focus to you even more?”

“I do,” he confirms. “If you do it right.”

“And you think I’m gonna ‘do it right’? Why?”

“Because I think my daughter is a very smart woman,” Jorge tells him, as though this explains everything. “And despite our vast differences, I trust her judgement.”

Frank is silent, clearly demanding further explanation. He grips the armrests of his chair tightly, leaning forward slightly, thinking that somewhere in here, somewhere now, the truth, or at least part of it, will emerge.

“Laurel would not seriously be with someone who could not protect her from the things she fears most,” Jorge tells him, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.

Frank opens his mouth to protest, can’t help himself, but Jorge cuts him off. “I’m not saying she doesn't love you,” he says placatingly, a sympathy Frank doesn’t trust creeping into his words. He speaks to Frank as though to an old friend, and Frank wants more than anything to get up and leave. He tries not to glance towards the door, can’t help it, watches as Jorge follows his gaze. “But part of that love, I think, comes from knowing you can and will keep the wolves from the door, as they say.”

“And what is it,” Frank asks pointedly, suspecting that really what she fears is not, as Jorge says, enemies circling from outside, but the ones already in the hall. “That you think she fears?”

“Things which are dead and gone. Or should be. And which will be if you do correctly what I ask of you.”

“Who’s this Fed then?” Frank asks, done talking in riddles.

“His name is Doug Barrow. He works out of the FBI’s Miami field office,” Jorge says, slowly pushing the photo back towards Frank.

Frank nods, stiffly, slowly, tries to remember whether that name had ever come across any file he’d ever read on Jorge Castillo, tries to recall whether the name could offer any clue as to what exactly is being asked of him, why having Special Agent Barrow out of the picture is so important to Laurel’s dad. “And he’s investigating you for what?”

“Does it matter?”

Frank shrugs. “It’d help to know.”

“I don't think it will,” Jorge tells him, definitively, putting an end to that line of conversation. “I used to have rather frequent dealing with Special Agent Barrow. You will not have success talking logic to a believer like him.”

“So I don't get to use logic, and I have no idea what he’s investigating you for, or why. You’re kinda hamstringing me here.”

Jorge stares at him, holds his gaze. “That is why I have sought your assistance with this, didn't give it to one of my errand boys. I need someone I can trust to carry it out, to be successful where lesser men would fail, someone who knows how to make the hard decisions to get the job done, who knows what to do when the deck is stacked against him.”

“And the end goal here?” Frank asks.

Jorge leans forward, clasping his hands and threading his fingers together. “I want the investigation to end.”

“By any means necessary?” Frank prompts, knowing what Jorge is asking, knowing he won't come out and say it. But Frank wants to ask anyway, wants to force Jorge to make the choice to not say it, to leave things vague, unspoken. Frank’s spent enough time with people who have asked him to take care of problems, make them go away, handle things, to know they often don't want to know the methods by which Frank eliminates those problems, couldn't handle the knowing.

Jorge is no different, he knows exactly what it is he is asking Frank, knows Frank understands what is being asked; they are speaking in a shared language of violence, of silence and pauses, because to give the things they speak of words would be to admit them, the terrible things Jorge must do to remain in power. Frank knows this language, it's more familiar to him than English and he’s been studying it since he was a child, first with the local Philly mobsters who took him on, and then, later, with Sam and Annalise. None of them could ever say what they were asking Frank to do, but that didn't mean he didn't know what was being asked, doesn’t know what’s being asked of him now.

“Frank,” Jorge says, sounding disappointed, as though he can’t believe Frank would be so gauche as to try and define the parameters of his request. “Use some finesse, that’s all I ask.”

Frank nods, scowling. He’s no closer to understanding the situation, the twisted dynamics and betrayals haunting the Castillos, but he can tell he’s been airdropped close to the heart of it. “When d’you need an answer?” he asks, voice casual.

Jorge narrows his eyes, as though unsure whether to believe what he’s hearing. “You leave Sunday, yes?”

Frank nods.

“No need to give me an answer,” he tells Frank with a too-wide smile. “Have it done by Sunday, that will be answer enough.”

“And what the hell do I tell Laurel?” Frank asks, not that it matters, because he’s not gonna fucking kill this Fed, not half a chance in hell he’s going along with this ridiculous request. He just wants to know how the hell Jorge thinks he’s expected to pull this hopeless assassination off without winding up in jail or worse. “She’s gonna notice if I go missing half the day or if I slink back at six in the morning.”

“You will think of something I’m sure,” Jorge tells him casually, with a knowing smirk. “I expect my daughter is used to some mystery where you are concerned.”

Except no, she’s fucking not, Frank wants to tell him, wants to wipe that smug grin off his face with that bit of truth. All the shitty things he does, all the terrible things that are put to him not as requests, but as demands; Laurel knows it all.

Sometimes she doesn't want to know, sometimes she tells him not to say anything, to leave her ignorant of the brutal things he does in case things go pear-shaped, but he’s always honest, always gives her the option of knowing. He doesn't think they’d be able to survive otherwise, nearly didn't survive the lies they went into their relationship trying to tell each other, the things they tried to conceal from each other.

And they don't, _won't,_ do that anymore, won't put what they have at risk to be silent for other people. Frank doesn't know how Jorge deals with his wife, his marriage, doesn't care really, but thinks it's probably a lot of silence and lies and willful ignorance, thinks that's all well and good for Laurel’s folks, but it doesn’t work for him, for them, and he’s pretty sure it makes Jorge a bit of an asshole that he’s suggesting that Frank lie to his daughter, that there’s nothing wrong with concealing his actions, his whereabouts from her; that it is not only expected, but encouraged that Frank lie to Laurel.

He thinks he’d probably be as suspicious as Laurel if she was raised by this man who clearly has heaped lies upon lies upon lies concealing layers of darkness and violence, probably just as attuned to the subtle shifts and gestures and cadences that can give away the truth, just as skilled at reading the things people try to hide. He thinks it was probably the only way she had of surviving unless she wanted to turn out like her siblings; Adrian who fully embraced the violence of their father; Vanessa, who cut and run as soon as possible and tied herself to another man and her children so she couldn't be dragged back; Hector, who tried and failed to hide things behind a wall of humor and anger, allowed himself to fail so completely he hoped he’d be given up as useless; and her oldest brother, the one Laurel never speaks of, who Frank has always suspected is either dead or in an institution somewhere.

Frank frowns, crosses his arms across his chest, stares at Jorge. “And what do I get out of this?”

The grin Jorge flashes is all teeth, sharp, predatory and victorious. Frank can tell Jorge thinks he’s gotten a bead on him, knows what makes Frank tick and how to exploit that. “What is it you want?”

Frank shrugs. He wants to tell Jorge he’ll do it if he’ll agree to leave Laurel the hell alone. No more telling her to take the Florida bar, no more urging her to join the business, no more efforts to malign or undermine her decision to stay in Philly or be a PD or make the choices she makes to escape her childhood, escape _him._

But he can’t, because that would mean he was considering agreeing to the deal, and he’s promised Laurel he won't, much as he thinks maybe doing this one little, easy thing will help her, them, in the long run; let them escape and live their lives free from the tethers, the shadows of Jorge Castillo. He thinks it would be so easy, to just do it, eliminate this ‘problem’ of Jorge’s and secure his agreement to leave Laurel the hell alone except for twice a year maybe.

But, if he’s being honest, Frank doesn’t trust it, thinks it would be just too damn easy. He doesn’t think that's a deal that could ever be upheld, enforced, thinks it might just wind up dragging them closer to the mess that Laurel’s been running from for close to a decade. Because Jorge would have something on him, an ax always hanging over his head that he could let fall at any time it suited him. And neither of them would ever be safe. Laurel was right, Frank thinks, the only thing to do is run because this isn’t a problem either of them can solve.

Jorge obviously thinks Frank is having trouble choosing something, thinks he’s probably being too greedy and is sorting through the myriad of benefits Jorge can provide. “How’s this Frank?” he asks, settling his hands flat against the dark wood desk. “You plan on marrying my daughter, yes?” not even waiting for Frank to respond. “I will pay for the ring, for the wedding, as big as you want it. Everything. And a house, I will pay for it outright, wherever you choose. I will pay to school any children you may have. If you move down here, as I hope you do, I will give you a job, a good one of course. And if you and Laurel don't work out, I will give you $250,000 cash and agree not to track you down for hurting her. Does that sound like a fair offer for a few hours of work?”

Frank regards Jorge cooly, trying to give nothing away on his face. Now he knows how badly Jorge wants this problem eliminated, what kind of threat he thinks this Special Agent poses. It is a much bigger problem than Frank had expected. He wonders who screwed up down the line to lead to a problem this big, this damaging to Jorge and his interests. He thinks, if he didn’t understand too well the conditions attached to it, that it would be a damn tempting offer. He wonders if he’s an idiot for rejecting it.

“It does sound fair,” Frank makes himself say, trying to force an agreeable smile onto his face. “What if I don't manage it though?”

Jorge raises an eyebrow, as if he can sense Frank’s line of thought. “It would depend upon the reason for your failure I think.”

Frank shrugs. “There’s plenty of reasons I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”

“True,” Jorge tells him amiably. “Nothing will happen if the situation remains static. If it is worsened, well, I think you should expect me to be less favorably inclined toward your relationship with my daughter, less favorably inclined towards you.”

Frank thinks that sounds rather like a threat to him, but wisely says nothing. He takes another sip of beer, slowly, holding Jorge’s gaze.

“You understand things then?” he’s asked, Jorge’s smile wide, the look of a man in control and used to winning.

Frank nods, swallows hard.

“Good,” Jorge tells him, practically winking with glee. “I knew I was right to trust you.”

He stands, goes to the door and opens it. Frank feels like maybe he can breathe a little easier, tries not to look longingly at the open door.

“You will not speak of this to Laurel, of course,” Jorge says, and Frank decides this is not a question.

He nods, thinking maybe the lie will go down better if he doesn’t speak it.

“Good,” Jorge says again, waiting at the door for Frank. He takes his hand as Frank passes, shakes it sharply, grasps his forearm tightly, gives him a smile that verges on giddy. Frank would probably give up that $250K for the chance to wipe that look off Jorge’s face with his fists. “I’m very glad we had this talk Frank.”

Fuck you, Frank wants to tell him. Fuck you for thinking this is a way to protect anyone but yourself. Fuck you especially for trying to make this about Laurel, for using his daughter to try and lure Frank in. And if he didn’t think it would hurt Laurel more than help her, he’d hope that the Feds came after Jorge with everything they had. But he can't say any of that, doesn't think he can even say it to Laurel, so he just lets Jorge shake his hand, think they have some kind of deal, and hopes the murder in his eyes can be disguised as something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't wanna give away too much, but this chapter sets up and kind of hints at a lot of what's to come. Hopefully everyone's still on board for the ride, cause it's gonna start to speed up and get a little crazy through the next few chapters


	18. Chapter 18

Frank leaves Jorge’s study as quickly as he can, goes outside looking for Laurel. He doesn’t know where else to go. He knows he’s not supposed to say anything to her, thinks it’s probably a bad idea if he does, but he knows he has to. He can’t keep this from her, this offer, whatever it is, even if she reacts as badly as he suspects she will. Because there’s no way she can react other than badly when Frank comes and tells her that her father offered him the moon if he’d off some Fed. But that's not how they do things, they don't keep secrets anymore, not after that disastrous year of murders and conspiracies and false imprisonment and half a dozen other felonies. So Laurel gets the truth, as ugly as it may be.

It’s quiet outside now, Elena appears to have retreated and there’s no trace of Vanessa and her kids, he can’t even see any wet footprints on the concrete that would suggest they’ve only recently gone inside. He sees no sign of Laurel either, but he’s pretty sure she’s not back in the house. He can’t imagine her wanting to stay in that house under the circumstances.

He’s right, of course, spots her along the beach a few hundred yards down, just as he’s about to give up and go check inside.

She’s sitting in the sand with her knees drawn up to her chest, forehead bent and resting on the arms she has crossed over her knees. Frank is struck by how small she looks, huddled up alone against the sprawl of the sand. She doesn't look up as he approaches, slowly and cautiously, like he’s sidling up to a scared animal he suspects will bolt.

Frank sits heavily beside her, careful not to touch her if she’s not up for it. He doesn’t know quite how to start the conversation he knows they must have.

Eventually she raises her head, looks at him with hard, dry eyes. She doesn't look sad or scared, not to Frank’s mind, but angry, determined instead. “Did you tell him no?” she asks fiercely.

“I didn’t tell him yes,” Frank answers honestly. “But that’s not the same as no.”

She scoffs. “To him it is.”

They’re both silent for a long moment, Laurel turning her eyes away from Frank and out towards the water. The two of them are alone on the beach, the only sound the crash of waves and the calls of birds.

“What, were you trying to walk back to Philly?” he asks then, nodding down the beach towards the house as he gives her a lopsided smile, trying to make a joke, suspecting he’s failed.

Something pulls at the corners of her mouth. “I walked south,” she tells him.

“To Cuba then?” he asks.

“It’s a possibility,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I just needed to get out of there.”

They’re silent for a few moments longer. “What did he ask you?” Laurel asks, voice soft, as though she doesn’t really want to know the answer. They’re still not touching, and Frank desperately wants to take her hand. He doesn’t though, keeps his distance, unsure that she will even want to touch him after they’re done with this conversation.

He sighs, runs his hand through his beard. “I think he asked me to kill someone.”

If he’s being totally honest, Frank was expecting more of a reaction to that statement from Laurel. Instead she just nods, exhales heavily as though she'd been holding her breath since he’d gone off with her father. Frank suspects it's totally possible that she has, given what was asked, given Laurel’s earlier warning about her father. “I figured it’d be something like that.”

“Do you wanna know who?” he asks helplessly, unsure of what else to say.

“No,” she tells him firmly. “It doesn't matter unless you’re gonna do it. And you better not fucking do it, Frank.”

He smiles, bitterly, but still a smile. “I’m not gonna fucking do it,” he tells her. “I promised you I wouldn’t, and I’m not gonna do it.”

Laurel makes a soft noise, low in her throat, rests her chin on her arms.

“He told me I should do it for you, to protect you,” Frank offers, regretting the statement as soon as it leaves his mouth. He knows Laurel already feels responsible enough for the things her father does, doesn't think he should be adding to that burden.

She scoffs again, but Frank thinks there’s something in the noise that’s tinged with deep, deep sadness. “He thinks everything he does is for us. I suppose in a weird way it is,” she turns away from Frank and he can only just hear her voice over the crash of the surf. “If he just did it for money, or power or, I dunno, ego, I could probably hate him. But he really thinks he’s doing everything for love.”

He wants to tell Laurel he doesn't think that's it at all, thinks she’s making excuses for her father so that she can continue to love him with that desperate, futile strength he sees in her, the one that clings to lost causes when any sane person would have given up. He wishes that she’d see what he sees in her father; a man who loves her most as a tool, as a means to an end. But what the fuck does he know.

“There’d be no point in warning the guy, huh?” Frank asks, not sure why he cares, not sure even if he even does care to tip the guy off, swing the scales into ‘worsening’ the situation.

“Not really,” Laurel says, still not looking at him. Frank wonders if she thinks not facing him will keep it from being real, keep her from having to admit things she can’t bring herself to face. “If my dad wants him gone, well, that’s usually what happens.”

He reaches out then, takes her hand, kisses her palm when she doesn't flinch into his touch. Something softens a degree or two in her gaze.

“I’m really sorry he asked you to do that,” Laurel tells him.

Frank shrugs; he’s used to getting these requests, what he’s not used to is refusing them. “I’m not. It gives the guy a few extra days, gives him Christmas.”

Laurel gives him half a smile. “I suppose.”

He hums his agreement. “Can we agree on something though?” he asks.

Laurel just raises her eyebrows, turns her head to rest again on her knees and stares at him.

“Can we do next Christmas somewhere like Bora Bora? Or Bali, I’ve heard Bali’s nice.”

She laughs. “What about Bangkok? Bhutan?”

“Somewhere with no cell phone service, and neither of our families, that’s for damn sure.”

He wants to let things go, really truly does, but he can’t. Now he knows how Laurel felt when Wes was always on her about Rebecca, convincing her that he had something to do with it. He has to know, can’t not know. “He’s never asked you to do anything like that though, right?”

Laurel goes completely still. “He’s asked me to do a lot of things, Frank,” she says, voice edged and careful. He knows this is not a path he should continue down if he knows what's good for him, her voice is like the low warning of an alarm.

“Ok,” he breathes. “Ok.”

She holds his gaze, eyes cold, and Frank can feel something in her draw back, retreat from him. He wants to tell her he doesn't mean it, isn’t asking because it will change anything, he just wants to know how far her father will go, how deep the wounds in her go.

“I’m sorry he asked you to do that too,” Frank tells her honestly, hoping she understands what he’s trying to say. Because Laurel’s just as much a pawn as he is in Jorge’s schemes, maybe more so, because it’s so much harder for her to resist, pull herself away from the lure of her family, of the life she’s known. He thrills again at the strength, the discipline he knows it would have taken her to walk away from this, this life, this wealth, this family, to stay gone, to stay strong in the face of what she could have if she just caved and let herself come back into the fold.

“He ruins everything, Frank,” she says softly, tone flat. He thinks she says it as though that's all the response he needs, thinks maybe her words contain the answer to questions he isn't even asking. He thinks maybe, too, that she believes it, believes she’s ruined, broken, corrupted in some way beyond repair or recovery. Frank thinks that would explain an awful lot. “I told you that.”

“He didn't ruin you,” Frank insists again. And he means it; he just hopes she believes him. “You’re a little dented, maybe, but not ruined. And to me, you're perfect anyway.”

Laurel edges closer to him then, lets her body settle against his all the way from her shoulders to her hips. She leans her head against his shoulder, sighs, turns her face to place a quick kiss against his shoulder. “I really wish you’d brought some booze out here with you.”

He laughs. “And here I was wishing I hadn’t had those beers with you earlier. Your dad’s a hard man to face after a couple of them.”

“He’s a harder man to face sober,” she tells him, but he can feel the edge of her smile against his shoulder. “Trust me.”

They go inside shortly after that, after Laurel realizes how late it’s gotten, realizes they need to be moving in the direction of getting ready for what she describes grimly as one of the worst parts of Castillo Christmas; dinner at her parents’ country club. Frank’s not entirely sure what to expect, country clubs not really being his scene, but from Laurel’s scathing description of what he should anticipate he’s expecting mediocre food, some tense conversation among people who generally can’t stand each other and enough booze to turn the population of a small country into alcoholics.

But, as he sits on the bed, slipping his shoes onto his feet, he decides the club dinner can’t be all bad if it gets Laurel wearing _that_. Sure, he’s seen her in plenty of dresses before, and plenty less than that, but when she emerges from the bathroom it doesn’t make his breath catch any less.

She’s in some black number he’s never seen before, one that stops mid thigh, lacy so that he can see more than a hint of skin underneath even though the fabric comes up to her neck and covers her shoulders. Frank wants to spend the rest of the night focused on nothing but the moment when he gets to peel it off her, thinks he probably won't be able to wait until after dinner.

Laurel’s distractedly slipping on an earring when she notices his hungry gaze.

“Hi,” she says, voice low, giving him a crooked smile, as she bites her lip.

“You warned me about the bikinis,” he tells her, standing and going to her, placing a hand against her hip and running it over the lacy fabric. He rasps his beard against her neck. “You shoulda warned me about this too.”

She laughs lightly, turns and kisses him, hungry and wanting. “Can’t ruin all the surprises,” she says when they break apart.

“I like your surprises,” he tells her, kissing her again, thumb pushing the strap of her dress down her shoulder.

“Good,” she says, smile wicked now. “Because I think there’s probably one later on that’ll involve you, me, and a little-used banquet room at the club.”

“What’s the surprise then?” Frank asks, teasing, running his teeth along her collarbone until she gasps. “If you already told me what’s involved?”

“What I’m gonna do to you,” she tells him, though the breathy gasp that interrupts her words diminishes the effect slightly.

Frank laughs, kisses her again. “I take it back, I really, really love your surprises.”

 

* * *

 

  
They’re the first of Laurel’s family to arrive at the country club, Hector giving Frank and Laurel a ride on the condition that one of them agrees to be the DD later that evening. Laurel almost rejects the offer, but decides she’d rather be sober than have to ride with either her parents or sister. Hector, of course, decides to go early so he can drink as much as possible on his father’s tab. And that’s how Frank winds up sitting at the bar, drinking some pretty damn fine whiskey, wedged between Laurel and Hector and steadily veering towards a level of intoxication he’s not sure won’t spell disaster once the rest of Laurel’s family arrives.

It's not so bad, he decides. The bar is still pretty empty, most of the club members, Jorge included, off in some banquet room down the hall for the golf tournament awards or something. There’s a steady trickle of men in checked pants or khakis coming to the bar for scotch and Cuba libre’s, and a nice crush of people who all clearly know each other at the far end of the room, but the three of them are among the only fixtures in the bar for the moment.

“Seriously?” he asks for about the third time, looking around the club. “This is what you guys do every Christmas Eve?”

Both Laurel and Hector nod, both of them trying not to snort into their drinks.

“Jesus,” he tells them, taking in the suited waiters, the crowd of stiff, overly dressed, clearly wealthy people, all with drinks in hand and ever-present frowns, the rich burgundy carpets and opulent leather chairs. “How you guys must’ve wished to be Jews.”

Laurel’s laugh is sharp and quick, biting.

“Honestly,” Hector says, gesturing wildly with his tumbler. “I just wished we could act like normal Mexicans.”

Laurel gives him a look. “You have no idea what normal Mexicans do.”

“That,” he tells her, voice only slightly slurred. “Is my point, L.”

She laughs again and they knock tumblers together, reaching across Frank’s body to do so. “Cheers to that.”

Hector looks at Frank seriously, can’t keep a straight face and bursts into laughter. “The Christmas Eve situation improved markedly once we learned to get drunk beforehand,” he peers at Laurel, frowns. “By the way L, last year was terrible, I had to drink alone and almost wound up feeling guilty. It totally ruined things.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she tells him sarcastically. “How do you think I felt two years ago when you skipped out? I had to make conversation with some state senator’s son who wasn't sure whether he wanted to get in my pants or lecture me about the flat tax.”

Hector snorts. “Bet you must’ve wished Gael never got deported,” He looks at Frank, then to Laurel, looks back to Frank. “You told him about Gael right? Or is Gael the Cubano bartender news to Frank?” Hector practically giggles.

Laurel rolls her eyes. “He knows about Gael. And he didn't get deported. I think he moved to Orlando.”

“Same difference.”

Frank and Laurel share a look, Frank rolling his eyes, Laurel shrugging kind of helplessly, a wry smile on her face.

“God, Dad hated Gael,” Hector says wistfully. “I don't think he ever figured out you were sleeping with him, but I’m pretty sure he wanted to murder him anyhow.”

“It’s cause Gael never made his micheladas right.”

Hector gives her an incredulous look, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously?”

“Totally,” Laurel confirms.

“That,” Hector tells them then, practically standing up in his barstool. “Is what we’re missing. To do Mexican Christmas right.”

Laurel makes a face, goes kind of green at the suggestion. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Hector looks over at Frank expectantly. “What about you man? Be an honorary Mexican with me.”

He gives Laurel a pleading glance. “What the hell’s a michelada?”

“Bloody Mary beer,” she says, still looking kind of ill. “It’s dark beer and tomato juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, lime juice, salt.”

“Dad likes soy sauce,” Hector interjects with a grin. “Heathen.”

“I’ll pass,” Frank tells him, feeling a little queasy as well. “Thanks though.”

“Really?” Hector asks, and Frank thinks his voice sounds like it's verging on dejected. He wants to tell Hector to quit while he’s ahead, because if this is getting him down, just wait until the rest of his family arrives.

Frank tries to give him a sympathetic smile. “I’ve got some ridiculously expensive whiskey here man. On someone else’s tab. I’m not gonna ruin it by drinking hot sauce.”

Hector nods, seems to take that explanation in stride, and catches the bartender’s attention to order.

Frank hears him ordering two more whiskeys for him and Laurel. He catches Laurel’s little frown too, the roll of her eyes. “He’s already forgotten I have to drive.”

“Oh relax,” Hector tells her. “We’re gonna be here for hours. Might as well get drunk now and spend the interminable Christmas Eve dinner sobering up and wishing you were anywhere else.”

“I’d rather do it shit-faced,” Laurel says, trying to sound annoyed, but a grin slips onto her face.

Hector matches her smile, curved and teasing. “Obviously. Which is why I made you the DD.”

She gives Frank an exasperated look. “He doesn't trust me to drive his car until he needs the drunk bus.”

Hector rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, voice mocking. “Of course. What other reason is there to have a little sister. I only have one of you and I need to put you to use when you're actually around.”

She takes Frank’s arm, lightly. “You can imagine what high school was like for me.”

“Hey,” Hector says, reaching around Frank to tap Laurel sharply. “Don't turn it into some tragic story. You got invited to all the best parties because of me.”

Laurel gives him a scathing look. “The two times I actually bothered to go, I sat in the corner and waited for you and your friends to be ready to leave.”

“How is that my fault?” Hector asks, something mean creeping into his tone. “I didn't make you a wallflower.”

She frowns, but Frank doesn't think it's tinged with anger, more like a weariness, an exhaustion. “Hector,” she says patiently, as if explaining something fundamental to a small, slow child. “I was the only freshman. I couldn’t drink. I knew hardly anyone there and anyone I did know knew I was just there to give you a ride. Did you really think you were doing me a favor by inviting me?”

“I did actually,” he says, sounding defensive. “Adrian used to make me DD all the time and it was a blast.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, sighs heavily. “No it wasn't. You hated his friends. And he made you do it like three times and quit because you got hammered every time.”

A slow grin spreads on his face. “Maybe that’s why I remember it being awesome.”

“Maybe.” Laurel agrees, still sarcastic. “Right up until you puked all over the kitchen.”

“No,” Hector tells her. “I remember that being pretty fun too.”

Laurel gives him another derisive look, but Hector ignores it in favor of taking his drink from the bartender. Frank takes his and Laurel’s in one hand, setting them both down on the bar top.

Laurel’s right; whatever a michelada is, it looks suspiciously like a Bloody Mary. He watches Hector take a sip, grimace and then gulp down half the glass. He and Laurel share a quick glance and he notices the way she tries not to frown, sculpts her face into something expressionless. Great, Frank thinks, it's gonna be that kinda night.

“You good?” he asks her, leaning in so he can speak directly in her ear.

Laurel nods, though her smile seems stiff. She gives his knee a gentle squeeze.

“To Mexican Christmas,” Hector says then, holding his drink up in a toast.

“To Mexican Christmas,” he and Laurel echo, as Laurel gives her brother a wry, humoring smile.


	19. Chapter 19

“So tell me about Italian Christmas, Frank,” Hector says after he downs even more of his drink.

Frank shrugs. “There’s a lot of food and a lot of Sambuca. And we can’t end the night without pasta.”

Hector laughs, looks to Laurel. “Seriously?”

She nods. “We got lasagna last year after the ham.”

He laughs again. “Do you think they have Sambuca back there?” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards the shelves of liquor behind the bar. “We should celebrate Italian Christmas next!”

Laurel’s smile is mocking, and Frank can tell she tries not to roll her eyes. “You gonna do a world tour tonight Hec?”

His grin grows wide, and Hector throws his head back. Frank worries for a moment that he will tip over in his stool, but he manages to keep his seat. “L, that is a truly amazing idea.”

She grins darkly. “Glad I could assist with your quest to get alcohol poisoning.”

Hector salutes her with his glass.

“You figuring that’ll be an improvement on the typical Christmas Eve dinner?” she continues.

He nods, affecting seriousness. “Absolutely. I think even a root canal would be an improvement.”

“I could punch you in the mouth,” Frank offers, only mostly joking. “You’d probably get to skip dinner for that.”

Laurel shoots him a look that skirts the border between annoyed and amused.

Hector nods in Frank’s direction, seems to decide to take it as a joke and grins back. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass. I’d prefer to drink until I forget.”

Hector flags down the bartender again, orders a shot of Sambuca, ignoring Frank and Laurel this time. He’s finishing the last of his michelada when Adrian appears over Hector’s left shoulder.

“Jesus,” Adrian says, giving Hector a disgusted look. “You’re drunk already aren’t you.”

“How can you even ask that?” Hector scoffs, pretending to sound affronted. “Of course I’m drunk; it's Christmas Eve and I’m expected to spend the evening with my family at this ridiculous country club.”

Laurel’s watching the two of them from the corner of her eye, knocks back the last of her first drink in one go. Frank wonders if he should order her another now as he sees her reach for the whiskey Hector ordered for her, decides against it.

“The real question,” Hector is asking, gesticulating in Adrian’s direction with his glass. “Is why aren’t _you_ drunk?”

Adrian turns to Laurel. “And you just let him get like this?” he asks, hard edge to his words.

Laurel shrugs, takes another long swallow. “What exactly do you want me to do?” she asks her brother cooly.

“Keep him from making an ass of himself, maybe,” Adrian hisses, grasping Laurel’s arm as she moves to take another sip. Frank can see Adrian’s knuckles go white, sees the force with which he grips her, wants to break every bone in Adrian’s hand, practically fantasizes about it. He can tell Laurel’s arm will bruise by morning. But she barely flinches, just tilts her head slightly in Adrian’s direction in a silent question. Whatever menace Adrian’s attempting, Laurel’s clearly having none of it, doesn’t think it even merits her involvement. Frank suspects this is all because their father is not yet present, hasn't yet cast judgement on his children. But Frank also thinks that this exchange has the feeling of a well-tread conversation, one that Laurel and Adrian have had before, have had so many times they already know the outcome.

“He’s an adult Adrian,” Laurel tells him flatly, after holding his angry gaze for a long moment, shrugging off his touch. “And so far hasn’t embarrassed himself any worse than anyone else here.”

Laurel reaches out to take Frank’s hand in hers, settles her palm over his clenched fist until his fingers uncurl, relax. He turns his hand over, takes hers, threading their fingers together. He thinks about downing the rest of his drink as well, but isn't sure he won’t try to shatter the glass against Adrian’s face.

Adrian glares at Laurel. “He’s practically falling off his stool. We haven’t even made it to the table.”

“He’ll be fine once we’re seated.” Laurel assures him with a scoff, turning away from her brother. “I’ll just prop him up against Elena.”

“I’m taking a liquor trip around the world,” Hector chimes in then, grinning wide like a madman at Adrian. “I’m thinking I’ll be obvious next and go with vodka, maybe schnapps. What do you think, A?”

Adrian makes a noise low in his throat, rather like a growl, Frank thinks. “I think you should chug some water, sober up and act like a goddamn adult.”

Something ugly flashes across Hector’s face then. “An adult, Adrian? You want me to act like a goddamn adult? Tell me, how exactly do you think an adult is supposed to act?”

The two of them stare each other down, both glaring, practically bristling with animosity. Frank isn’t sure either one of them is going to back down, isn't sure things won't come to blows now that Hector appears to have gained some liquid courage. He doesn't think he’s going to intervene if it does, doesn’t think he likes either of them enough to stop a fight if comes to that.

But then Laurel slips out of her chair, places a hand against Adrian’s forearm, and turns his body just enough so that he has to shift his gaze away from his brother. “Where’s Colleen, A?” she asks, voice soft and level.

“She’s still upfront,” Adrian answers, voice sounding distant as though his mind is still half on his aborted confrontation with his brother. He has one eye on Laurel, the other eye still watching Hector warily; still, to Frank’s trained mind, giving every indication that he's spoiling for a fight. “She ran into Jerry Soto’s wife, wanted to talk about some charity auction they’re heading up.”

“Why don't you get her a drink?” Laurel prompts gently, still holding his gaze, as though looking away will break the spell and get him mad at Hector all over again. “Let her know where we are. I’ll go see about our table?”

And just like that, Adrian nods smartly, as if the whole thing were his idea, and flags down the bartender. He ignores Hector without comment, even though Hector repeatedly asks Adrian to order him a mojito, apparently deciding to go Cuban rather than Russian with his next drink choice.

Laurel glares at the back of Hector’s head and slides what’s left of her whiskey in front of him. He gives her a wide grin and goes to work on the tumbler.

She gives Frank an inscrutable look, reaches back and squeezes his hand and slips past her brother towards the seating area. Frank hopes she hasn’t just put him in charge of keeping the peace in her absence, because he’s pretty sure it's not a task he’s up to, not a problem he will be able to find a solution for. He thinks that even if he could, he’s not sure he would intervene if tensions rise again.

He thinks it would probably serve the two of them right to get into a fight on Christmas Eve in this shitty, ridiculous country club and the only reason he’d try and stop it would be because Laurel seems to have some inexplicable desire to protect her brothers from themselves. He still doesn't get it, doesn’t really even like it, but he’s smart enough to know that whatever Laurel does, she does it for a reason.

Dinner turns out not to be much of an improvement on drinks. Laurel’s parents show up soon after they’re given a table, and it’s probably not half a minute before Laurel’s mom has practically collared the college-aged waiter to demand a vodka tonic, as though it's not only a capital offense, but a grave moral affront that she’s had to wait that long for a drink. The kid takes it mostly in stride, because apparently all rich people are crazy and have possible undiagnosed alcoholism, but withers under the glare Jorge directs at him when he dares to ask Elena what type of vodka she’d prefer.

When the kid finally arrives back with drinks, the infamous michelada for Jorge and a Singapore Sling, of all things, for Hector, Elena practically downs half the glass before the kid has made it five steps, ordering a second as Frank can see it slowly dawn on the waiter just what kind of night he’s going to be in for with the Castillos.

Laurel, fortunately, takes the moment of awkwardness with the waiter to lean over while no one is paying attention to them to wonder at the discussion they're having, speaking softly into Frank’s ear.

“So in twenty minutes or so, I’m gonna pretend to head to the bathroom. Text Bonnie to fake a call about work or something,” she addresses him without any hint at seduction, but frankly, matter of factly. And if Frank’s being honest with himself, it’s kind of a turn on that she’s so confident he’ll follow like a dog at her heels that she doesn’t have to put on a show, doesn't have to try and seduce him; she knows she’s already done it.

“Jesus, princess,” he breathes, practically half hard already in his seat. He shifts his napkin slightly in his lap, thanking whatever deity is watching out for restaurant bathroom hookups that Laurel’s niece and nephews aren’t here yet. “You that horny you’re cool with Bon knowing about Christmas Eve bathroom quickies?”

Laurel grins wickedly, slides her hand across his thigh, over the growing bulge in his pants. “She won't know anything, she’ll just think you’re bored and wanted to escape.”

Frank gives her a look, thinks seriously about trying to get Laurel off under the table instead, wonders if she’ll let him with her family all sitting mere feet away, with a hundred of her dad’s golf buddies surrounding them. He wonders if she’d even mind; she’d probably get a kick out of trying to stay still and quiet, give nothing away. But he decides against it, decides it's too risky, and mostly rejects the idea because he really, really just wants to get her out of that lacy little dress. “Bonnie’s not an idiot,” he tells her. “And besides that, she knows me, and you for that matter, way too well. She’ll know what the call’s a cover for.”

Laurel shrugs, lets her grin spread wider. “Figure something out Frank, or I’m gonna be getting myself off.”

And just, _fuck._ What’s Frank supposed to do with that? He wonders idly if he could fake a call right fucking now, because he’s not sure he’s gonna be able to wait twenty minutes with that image rattling around in his head, not sure he’s going to be able to make politely barbed conversation with the rest of Laurel’s family when all he’s thinking about is getting laid.

Fortunately Vanessa and the kids burst in then, which temporarily distracts both of them. From what Frank can gather, there was a scuffle in the car between Eric and Leo and now Eric is spitting with rage at being caught and punished and Leo is trying to stifle his tears as both his grandfather and uncle turn to him and narrow their eyes.

Leo and Eric get assigned to either side of Vanessa at the end of the table, though Frank thinks for half a second about suggesting none of the kids sit next to Hector. Frank remembers himself at eight, would have been all too curious about what Hector was drinking, would have snuck sips of Hector’s drinks when he wasn’t paying attention until he was green and pickled. But he’s not sure pointing this out will be taken well, so instead he stays quiet and resolves to keep an eye on what Laurel’s oldest nephew gets up to when Hector is distracted.

Luna takes the seat next to Colleen, Marco sidling up to the seat next to Laurel with a little grin.

“Hey kid,” she tells him, helping him into the too-large chair, trying to smother her smile when Marco finally takes his seat and the table only comes up to his chin. “You excited for Santa yet?”

Frank slips his phone out of his pocket then, shooting off a hurried text to Bonnie, hoping she didn't decide at the last minute to spend the holiday with Asher and his snooty sister.

_Bon, hook a brother up. Call me in 20, pretend it's urgent._

He immediately gets a response in the form of a side-eye emoji. He wishes some of Asher’s worse traits didn't rub off quite so easily on Bonnie. He liked her better when she sent full sentences, complete with correct punctuation. It made it easier to tell if she was actually gonna help him out.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and pretends he’s been listening to Marco’s recitation of his entire Christmas list. He wants to point out to Laurel that so far, he hasn’t heard a single mention of wanting a book. But he likes that she’s that aunt, the one who thinks kids should get something semi-educational, who wants to give them something more than video games and the latest cool toy. It’s naïve and it's futile, but that's a lot of what he loves in Laurel and he doesn't want to find out if that’d change if she did.

“You wrote your list up, right?” Laurel’s asking him, sounding very serious. Her entire attention is fixed on her nephew and he’s beaming at her like he’s never been happier. Frank thinks he probably hasn’t, thinks that being the middle son has probably left Marco feeling pretty starved for individual attention, especially because he seems so quiet, calm, unlikely to start the trouble that seems to be the best way to catch Vanessa’s attention. “And you made sure to mention you were gonna be in Florida?”

Marco nods, equally somber. “I did. Mommy warned me that if I didn't Santa would leave all my presents in Texas.”

Laurel laughs. “Well that was very nice of her to remind you. It would be pretty awful if Santa left your presents at the wrong house. But I bet your dad would take good care of things till you got back.”

Marco nods again. “Except daddy has to work Christmas. So he’ll forget to put cookies out and then I wouldn’t get anything.”

“You’re right,” Laurel agrees, sparing a glance back at Frank, shoots him a smile heavy with affection. “That’d be pretty awful.”  
She looks up as the waiter approaches, takes Marco’s plastic cup of soda and sets in front of him, flashing a sympathetic smile at the waiter as he tries to hand another cup to Vanessa, who appears to be ignoring him in favor of scolding Eric for drumming on the table with his cutlery. She gestures to the waiter, takes the proffered cup and passes it to Frank, indicating with a little tilt of her head that he should pass it across the table towards Leo. He does, winking at the little boy, and Leo takes the cup in his two tiny hands, giving Frank a wide grin as he tries to imitate the wink.

Sometimes watching Laurel operate is like watching a skilled puppet master or a conductor at work, Frank thinks. She’s so subtle that you don't notice her unless you look hard, remain still and focused, but Laurel is the one making sure everything runs smoothly, the one who can fit all the pieces together in synchronicity and avoid disaster. She’s so aware of everything going on around her, so aware of the subtleties of the people around her, that she can orchestrate something as simple as drink service, as complex as covering up a murder, without breaking a sweat. He’s not even sure if her family even realizes what she’s doing, what she’s been doing in silence at least since they've arrived, and, Frank suspects, for years before that; smoothing out the flaring tensions between her siblings, her parents, before they can ignite.

The waiter’s now trying to wrangle everyone into ordering, still trying to catch Vanessa’s attention with a frown that's growing more pained by the minute. Frank tries to remember to slip him an extra tip as they leave, thinks Laurel will probably do the same and the two of them will wind up out $40.

“Nessa?” Laurel says sharply across the table, forcing her to look up. “Does Leo still hate tomato sauce?”

Vanessa blinks slowly. “What?”

“Leo,” Laurel says again, like she’s prompting her sister. “What's the verdict on tomato sauce? I’m trying to order for him.”

Vanessa smiles stiffly, nods in understanding. “Right. Yeah. Still a no-go on tomato sauce.”

Laurel nods, frowns and turns to the waiter. “This one’ll do chicken nuggets then,” she tells him. “Marco? Chicken nuggets or spaghetti?”

Marco gazes at her somberly. “Nuggets.”

She grins at him, wide and toothy. “Good choice bud.”

Frank quickly scans the menu; chicken, fish, steak, pasta, lobster. “What’s decent here?” he asks Laurel quietly, remembering her warning that he wasn't in for much of a dining experience tonight.

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Definitely avoid the pasta, you’ll just be disappointed. Fish? Steak?”

“I’ll do the steak,” he tells the waiter, hoping he hasn't made a mistake. “Medium.”

He notices that Laurel orders the chicken, gives her a look.

She’s handing her menu back to the waiter, turning back to the table when a woman in a short, shiny, gold dress stops short in front of their table.

“Lauren?” the woman asks, sounding not at all sure of herself, as though she’s only just remembering that she knows who she’s addressing. “Lauren Castillo?”

He watches Laurel’s face go blank for a moment, before a mask-like smile slips into place. She turns to the woman. “Laurel, actually.”

“Laurel,” the woman says with a chuckle, one hand toying with her large gold earring. “Right, sorry,” she points to herself. “Amanda Choi. I think we graduated together.”

Laurel just nods, still smiling like it's been stamped on her face. “Right,” she echoes. “It’s great to see you.”

And it doesn't sound great to Frank at all, the hollow ring to her voice, but he doesn't think anyone else notices, because Amanda’s smile grows wide until he sees teeth. “It is. It’s so great to see you, what are you up to?”

“I’m in Philadelphia right now,” Laurel says, and Frank thinks she deliberately makes it sound temporary, trying to give as little away as possible. “Just down for Christmas.”

“Of course,” Amanda says brightly. “See the folks, all that.”

"And you?” Laurel asks, ignoring her mention of a family visit. “Are you still down here?”

“Yeah, I am. Went to FSU, came straight back. I work downtown for the city.”

Laurel makes an encouraging noise.

“I'm so glad to have run into you,” Amanda tells her brightly, and Frank watches Laurel grimace, just slightly. “Nicole Ordoñez and I were talking about you over Thanksgiving. Neither of us remembered hearing anything about you since graduation, couldn't even remember where you’d gone to school.”

Laurel’s lips press into a thin, pinched line so quickly Frank thinks he must have imagined it. “Brown,” she says, that strange polite smile slipping back onto her face, one that reminds him of Michaela at her most tense and desperate. Except on Laurel there's not that crazed quality that makes him think Michaela’s often one wrong move away from a nervous breakdown. With Laurel, he’s just left wondering where she's gone, feels like she's been replaced with some new, strange creature who looks and sounds the same, but is filled with just mirrors and smoke. “I wanted to see some snow.”

Amanda laughs, fakes a little shudder. “You’re brave,” she tells Laurel. “I was in Atlanta in January last year. Couldn't even handle that.”

Laurel laughs as well, the sound one that Frank’s never heard from her before. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, can tell immediately from the slight widening of Laurel’s eyes that it was a deliberate choice that this woman knew nothing of Laurel post-high school, but it strikes him how easily she slips into this casual, disaffected role, blithe and unconcerned. How she matches, almost uncannily, the tone, the gestures and smiles of the woman in front of her, how she so carefully ensures everything appears perfect. If he didn't know her so well, he would think this is who she was, thinks now it's probably a role she’s been playing her whole life. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Amanda laughs again, turns away as a man in a navy sport coat across the room calls her name, gestures for her to join him. “That’s my husband,” she says apologetically. “I would introduce you, but he’s talking with the mayor’s aide or something and won't budge. It was really great to run into you though. Maybe I’ll see you after dinner and we can catch up more.”

Laurel smiles politely, waves her off. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” she says.

Once Amanda is gone he hears Laurel sigh, sees the deep frown that splits her face.

“You hated her in high school didn't you,” Frank says, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“Yeah,” she tells him. “I really, really did. And Nicole Ordoñez.”

“And high school? In general?” he asks with a teasing smirk.

“Hated that too.”

He laughs and Laurel even manages a chuckle, the sound back to what he’s familiar with, what he expects from her. “Did she know?” he asks. “That you hated her?”

“Probably not,” Laurel says wryly. “I was quiet, but I had money, so I got to be popular. Everyone just assumed I liked it that way.”

“They’re all idiots then,” Frank tells her, still smirking. “One look at you, princess, and I could tell you had a bad streak a mile wide. You and me, we’d’ve cut class and got high and fucked in my parent’s car.”

She laughs, the sound light and clean, rolls her eyes. “Is that so? I don't think high school Frank would’ve stood a chance.”

He feels his grin go lopsided. “Honestly, current Frank doesn't stand a chance against you either.”

There’s a slow spread of a wicked grin across her face. “Let’s find out, Delfino,” she tells him then, standing and placing her napkin on her chair. “Hopefully Bonnie remembers to call you.”

She taps Adrian on the shoulder, indicating that he should take over keeping Marco in line, gives Frank a last lingering glance over her shoulder and saunters out of the dining area.

Fuck, he thinks, praying that Bonnie calls him right damn now, wonders if he can wait the two minutes it’ll take to keep up a pretense that they’re not both going off to hook up, concludes that no, he really, probably, can’t.


	20. Chapter 20

Bonnie calls just as he’s decided to fake a call with no one on the other line, decides he doesn't care if everyone can see through the ruse.

“You owe me, Frank,” she tells him when he picks up the phone.

He must take too long to reply because she makes a noise like a growl. “This isn't how our fight club works. I don't exist to facilitate your tawdry public hook-ups with Castillo.”

“I know,” he replies, giving an apologetic nod to Laurel’s assembled family, getting out of his seat and following the direction Laurel went. “But thanks anyway.”

He can sense her frown over the phone. “You still owe me.”

“I know,” he repeats. “How’s a very doucheface Christmas?”

“I told you I wasn’t going with him,” Bonnie says stiffly.

“Yeah, but I know you caved and did.”

She growls again, because he was right, but ignores the question. “How’s Cuban Christmas?”

“She’s Mexican,” Frank corrects.

“Whatever,” Bonnie says and he knows something in her line of sight was just subject to an epic eye-roll. “How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as it could be,” he answers honestly.

He hears Bonnie chuckle. “So there hasn't been an arrest. What a crowning achievement.”

They’re both silent for a moment before Bonnie speaks again. “Seriously, Frank, how bad is it?”

He doesn't respond, he doesn't think he can.

She hums. “That bad huh?”

“Yeah,” is all he says. He’s out in the hallway now, trying to spot Laurel so he can get off this damn phone call, which has turned into something he wants to end right damn now.

“I could’ve told you that,” Bonnie says, sounding stern, but he hears a note of sympathy beneath the steel in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she tells him casually. “Trust me, I know from messed up families.”

And Frank doesn't want to know, really, really doesn't want to know what Bonnie’s messed up family sixth sense has picked up about Laurel, but he can’t fucking help himself. “Hers messed up like yours?” he asks, because he can’t not ask, because he’s a sucker for punishment and a nosy fucking bastard. “Hers worse than yours?”

Bonnie chuckles darkly. “You know that quote about happy families? How they’re all the same?”

“Yeah, and every unhappy family is unhappy in its own very special way.”

“That’s the one,” she confirms. “I don't know if you can put us on a scale, see who’s worse off. But her family are bad people just like my family are bad people. And you should’ve known that, Frank. Or you should've asked me.”

“Well I didn’t Bon, sorry.”

“Me too,” she tells him sincerely. “But at least you’re getting laid, right? Or did you just call so you wouldn't have to sit there imagining putting your fist through someone’s face?”

“The former,” he says, hears her laugh.

“See,” she says, trying to sound sympathetic. “Could be worse.”

“You’re right,” he tells her, spotting Laurel at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, looking bored and sullen. “We could have to be here through New Year’s.”

“That’s the spirit,” she tells him. “Now go get your rocks off. Say hi to wallflower for me.”

“Thanks again, Bon.”

“Anytime,” she tells him, ending the call.

Frank slips his phone back into his pocket, sidles up to Laurel, gives her a slow, cocky grin. “Hey.”

She gives him a shy, seductive smile. “Took you long enough.”

He smirks at the impatience in her voice. “Sorry,” he tells her. “Bon wanted to chat.”

Laurel pushes herself off the wall, turns and heads further down the hallway. “Well, I don't. C’mon.”

She leads him past a couple of banquet rooms, all empty, then a set of bathrooms. Just as he’s about to ask what’s wrong with all these perfectly good hookup locations, she stops, jiggles a door open and tugs Frank inside.

“Bridal suite,” she tells him, flipping the lights and leaning against the now closed door, flipping the lock in place without a backwards glance.

“Good thinking,” he tells her, watching her grin up at him, still and waiting.

He glances around the room, takes in the plush cream colored furniture, taking special note of the couch, the wall length mirror, wonders if the mini-fridge currently contains any goodies.

Laurel straights then, practically stalks towards him, a hungry, desperate look in her eyes. Desire builds, low and aching in the pit of his stomach. Her hands are at his belt seconds before their lips meet, Laurel’s fingers gliding against the leather as she works it open.

“Easy killer,” he laughs, kisses her again, fingers threading through her hair.

She’s silent as her hands work at the zipper of his slacks, slip inside to stroke over him, something fierce and determined in her eyes. He gasps into her mouth, hips stuttering forward before he can help himself. Her little hands pump him hard, glide over him, something furious in her eyes, a wicked grin creeping onto her face as he swells and lengthens in her fist. Frank’s been half hard since she first brought up the bathroom hookup, since he saw her in her little lacy dress if he’s being honest, and the thought that she’s just as desperate for him, wants him just as badly as he wants her, well, it turns him on more than he’d care to admit. He isn't sure he could get any harder, needs to get off right fucking now. Laurel’s grin is feral as she sinks to her knees, dragging his pants and boxers down his hips.

There’s a pause that seems like it lasts days as Laurel holds his gaze, before she takes him in her mouth, every last aching inch of him. He groans before he can help himself at the feeling of her warm, wet mouth against him, tongue stroking against the underside of his shaft as she begins to move.

“Fuck,” he hisses as she begins to move faster, eyes squeezing shut because the sight of Laurel on her knees, his cock in her mouth, is probably enough to finish him off.

“No,” she says then, voice a command, stopping her movements, though she places a small, quick kiss against the head of his cock, swirls her tongue over it, makes him hiss again. A hand goes to his hip, digging her nails painfully into the skin there, demanding his attention. “Eyes open. Watch yourself.”

And oh, _fuck_ , Laurel’s liable to give him a heart attack, he thinks with what’s left of his brain as he open his eyes, tries to look away from her, look anywhere else so he doesn't come right then and there. But she’s told him to look, and seems pretty determined that he does, and he’s a sucker for her, can’t resist her at the best of times. So he looks, can’t help it. He catches his own eyes in the full length mirror, drops his gaze to watch Laurel sucking him off and just, _goddamn_. He’s not sure he’s seen a better sight in his life, her mouth moving over him, looking like she can’t get enough of his taste. He can see her body shift slightly in the mirror, he thinks she presses her thighs together, tight, trying to create some friction where she needs it most.

“Hey,” he says, voice strangled and hoarse. She ignores him, hollows her cheeks and continues to move. “Hey.”

Laurel looks up but doesn't lessen her pace, and if he doesn't stop her now, well, there’ll be no stopping her. “C’mere,” he says, practically groaning.

He's not sure she’ll comply, but she does, rises to her feet and kisses him. His hands stroke through her hair, push the wild strands behind her ears. He can faintly taste himself on her tongue, and his hips buck into her before he can help himself.

“Turn around,” he growls. “I’ve been thinking all night about fuckin’ you in that dress.”

Again, Frank thinks for a minute she might challenge him, but she turns around, letting him rasp his beard against the space behind her ear until she moans, lets him crush her hips against his, ruck the lace of her dress in his fists.

Before he knows what he’s done he has Laurel bent over the couch, is slipping the thin lace of her panties down her legs and stroking his thumb against her clit. She’s wet for him, there’s no disguising the moisture coating the inside of her thighs.

“You been thinking about me all night, princess?” he rumbles against her neck, fingers slipping through her hot, wet heat, thumb still gliding against her clit.

“No,” she tells him, trying to keep her voice steady, but there’s a hiccup there, a breathiness that they both know gives away the lie.

Frank chuckles low, predatory, picks up the pace of his thumb. “Sure seems like you’ve been thinking about it,” he tells her, teeth nipping at her throat till she lets out a high little whine. “But maybe I should stop and let you just suck me off if you’re not feeling it right now. That sound good?”

“No,” she says again as Frank stills the movement of his thumb. Her voice is desperate, ragged. Her hand drifts down, catches his wrist before he can move his fingers away, presses his hand against her body. “No, don't stop.”

“Oh,” he says, low and teasing, as his thumb brushes against her center again. “So you were thinking about me?”

She nods, licking her lips, swallows hard.

“Tell me,” he orders.

“I’ve been thinking about you fucking me since we left the house,” she tells him, voice now steady, a challenge in her words, daring him to do something about it.

And Frank, he never backs down from a challenge, not one Laurel gives him. He grasps her hip, fingers crushing against her so hard he thinks he may hurt her, positions himself at her entrance and thrusts forward.

Laurel moans, breathy and wanton. Frank meets her gaze in the mirror, watches the wicked grin that slips onto her face as she watches him fuck her, watches her eyes darken and slip closed, just for a moment, as he increases the pace of his thrusts. Her face is flushed and she’s palming her breast through the material of her dress, breath coming in little pants. Knowing that he can do that to her, knowing that he’s responsible for her little breathy moans, her gasps, that he’s fucking her so hard she can’t keep her eyes open, well, that pretty much fucking gets him there.

He’s right on the edge and he doesn't think she’s close, but he can’t fucking care, can’t do a damn thing about it. His pace begins to grow erratic and when she lifts her eyes again to meet his, well, he comes so hard he thinks he stops breathing, everything going white behind his eyes.

He tries to maintain the strokes of his thumb against her clit, knows he fails. When he can finally think again he slips out of her, pulls her body flush against his, one hand against the flat of her stomach, the other still rubbing against her. He slips two fingers inside her, curls them against her, adds a third when he hears her gasp, feels her clench against them.

He lets his lips search out the sensitive skin of her neck, lets his lips and tongue and teeth take turns against the flesh there while she presses forward into his hand and he continues to stroke, hard, against her clit.

He can feel her begin to tense, increases the thrust of his fingers until she comes with a high little whine, body sagging limp against him.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Frank laughs against her neck, damp with sweat, as she turns in his arms, kisses him.

“That was technically engagement sex too,” she chuckles, runs her hand over his cheek, through his beard, presses her lips against his again.

“I like engagement sex,” he tells her simply.

Laurel gives him an appraising look. “Me too. Glad I asked you to get hitched.”

He gives her a mocking grin, tinged with affection. “Me too,” he echoes. “Though I’d like it noted that I really was gonna ask you. I feel like you're gonna hold this over me till we’re old and grey.”

“That's the idea,” Laurel tells him, and her smile is quick and shy and so full of expectation.

For a moment he sees their future stretched out before him; this, for the rest of his life. He’s not sure how that’s possible, how he got so lucky, but he thinks that’s all it takes, all he’d need to die a happy man. “I love you,” he blurts out.

And if he thought about it too hard he’d probably start laughing at the absurdity; he’s standing there with his pants around his ankles, Laurel trying to clean herself up, pulling her panties back on, smooth down her wrinkled dress. But then she lifts her eyes to his again, straightens and looks at him and he forgets all the ways this is ridiculous and knows only that yeah, he loves her.

“I love you too,” she tells him, a quick, easy grin slipping onto her face, taking his hand in hers and squeezing. “And not just cause you’re very good at making me come.”

“That helps though right?” he drawls, pulling her to him, tucking a few damp strands of hair behind her ears and kissing her, slow and sweet.

“Yeah,” she says against his mouth. “That does help.”

Laurel slips out of the room first, pressing a quick kiss against his lips as she does. He waits a few minutes, wondering if Bonnie would take a second call from him, before he leaves too, goes back to the table. Dinner has been served in their absence, but fortunately his steak is still warm and the rest of Laurel’s family appears to have only just begun to eat.

Frank breathes a sigh of relief that no one seems to have noticed his absence, or Laurel’s for that matter. That sigh catches in his throat as he realizes that no one’s noticed, made a snide comment, because there’s some skirmish now threatening to blow up at the other end of the table, too far away from Laurel for her to be terribly effective in diffusing it.

Jorge and Hector, of course; probably the combination hardest for Laurel to smooth over at the best of times, given her father’s nature, and damn near impossible, Frank thinks, given her distance from the scene of the brewing battle.

He's sitting even father away, so he catches only snippets of what’s got the two of them upset, but it seems to center on Hector’s restaurant again, on his lack of money.

“If you’re going to insist that your money is yours, your business is yours, _mijo_ , you cannot possibly expect an open bar every time you decide to visit,” Jorge tells him, eyes narrowing, as Hector orders a sake bomb. “Especially if you’re going to make it very clear that you’re only in attendance to get drunk and embarrass your mother and me.”

“I’m not the only one getting sloshed,” Hector says, gesturing with his empty glass towards his mother. Elena, fortunately, continues to ignore everything unpleasant that crosses her path, continues to chat with Vanessa and ignore her son, seated beside her.

Even at this distance, Frank can see Jorge’s jaw clench, sees the glare he directs at his son. “What you are is the only person making a fool of himself,” Jorge says, voice dangerously low. “And I will not be expected to sanction you insulting your family this way, setting such a bad example for your sister’s children.”

Hector is clearly drunk enough that he’s past the point of sensing danger, or just doesn't care, because he breezily ignores the clear warning he’s being sent. “You pay for Laurel when she’s here, try to lure her back with your money, try to make her see what a great life she could have if she just caved and went along with your evil plans. But you won't pay for me because you want me to fail, want me to come crawling back to you, beg you to bail out my restaurant when I do.”

“I pay for Laurel, and Vanessa and Adrian as well because they do not abuse my good nature, are not only here to spend my money and insult me.”

“Well, I’m not gonna keep my mouth shut,” Hector barrels on. “I’m not holding my tongue like Nessa just because I want your money. If you’re gonna let Laurel insult you to your face and still pay for her when she comes down, I’m gonna do the same.”

“It's not quite so simple Hec,” Laurel says then, casually, because she can’t not take the opportunity to direct Hector’s attention away from their father, try to save him from the scalping Frank thinks everyone at the table knows is coming. “He doesn't treat me any differently than he does you, or Nessa. We try to keep our differences to ourselves, dad and I.”

“You see Hector,” Jorge says, attempting a friendly tone, but Frank hears something sinister in his voice, like he’s drawing Hector in only to put a knife in his back. He can’t decide whether the look Jorge flashes Laurel is an innocent one or one she should be worried about, one tinged with a threat that she would bring up the terms of their truce, speak it aloud where everyone will know the temporary victory Laurel gained on her father. “There’s no sinister plot, no one is trying to make you fail. I simply cannot abide by your childish behavior.”

Frank catches a glimpse of something dangerous in Hector’s eyes then, the kind of explosive, directionless rage that lashes out and destroys everything it touches. Whatever Hector’s intentions are, he’s clearly past the point of caring what, or who, he hurts, he just wants to make _something_ hurt, cause damage and pain wherever he can find it.

Frank thinks then that Laurel and Hector are opposites, two sides of the same wound. Hector is all emotion, exposing his hurt for the world to see, tearing the scabs open again and again when it doesn't heal right, trying to make everyone around him feel that same hurt because if he can’t make the pain or rage or fear stop he doesn't want anyone else to go without hurting either. It’s fucking selfish Frank thinks, but he gets it. He thinks he’d probably do the same in Hector’s shoes.

But Laurel; she’s completely different. Laurel masks whatever pain she’s feeling, disguises it, forces it down so deep within her that she can fool herself into thinking it's no longer there, no longer poses a danger, that she's conquered it by some miracle. And whatever raw, weeping wounds she may have, she covers them, grits her teeth and pretends she’s fine, tries to take whatever others are feeling and make it hers, lessen their pain at the expense of her own. Whatever the two of them have faced, they've struck out in opposite directions, but, Frank thinks, neither of them have been successful in lessening the damage, healing the festering wounds.

“Well,” Hector says, the harshness in his voice one that makes Frank sit up and take notice, it’s the sound of a man on the edge, ready to go for broke. “Let me make things simple for you dad. I’ll come home and you’ll pay for my bar tab so that I can get through the misery of a holiday with you. You’ll go ahead and pay to make it tolerable, pay to let me forget how much I hate you all.”

Jorge brings his hand down to the tabletop sharply, half stands out of his seat and leans forward over his son. He addresses Hector in Spanish too quick and too low for Frank to even catch any words he might recognize, but whatever it is Laurel blanches, turns quickly to Marco and Leo, confirms that either they don't understand or aren't paying attention and allows herself to relax half a degree, turn her focus back to her father and brother and, Frank is certain, go back to thinking of a way to stay Hector’s impending execution.

Before Laurel can intervene, come up with some inevitably bad scheme to turn the attention away from Hector and towards herself, Hector rescues himself. Or delays own his execution, Frank can’t quite decide which. He and Jorge glare at each other for what seems like hours, no one at the table moving, breathing, let alone trying to intervene. And then Hector glances away, looks towards his mother and her empty wine glass.

“How bout I get everyone a round of drinks,” Hector offers, voice small and, to Frank’s ears, more petulant than apologetic.  “This damn waiter is taking forever and mom’s practically dried out.”

“You will be ordering a water for yourself then, Hector?” Jorge asks, careful to get one last jab in, despite Hector’s stunted attempts at an apology. “Given our conversation I would not dare to presume.”

Hector says nothing, glances again at his mother’s wine glass and stands. Frank thinks Laurel considers going after him for half a second, can see the way she places her hands flat against the table, as though to push herself upright. But she seems to think better of it, seems to decide against it with a little frown that furrows her brow, lets Hector leave with a long, lingering glance at his back, a long sigh that rings to Frank’s ears like the sound of defeat.


	21. Chapter 21

“Laurel,” Adrian calls down the table once Hector is a good distance away. “So let me get this straight, dad pays for everything while you're here?”

“Goddamnit,” he hears Laurel swear under her breath. She reaches over to Frank’s ignored tumbler of whiskey, takes a long swallow, before she turns to Adrian with a polite smile. “That’s pretty much it, yeah.”

“Ok, ok,” he tells her, excitedly, an anticipatory smile spreading across his face, predatory and calculating. “I want to know more about that. Like, what exactly does he pay for?”

“Food. Drinks. I dunno, A, it's not like dad gives me a bill at the end,” she says derisively, barely deigning to look at him.

Adrian hums. “Maybe he should.”

Laurel shrugs, scoffs. “Take that up with him then.”

“No,” Adrian tells her, darkly. “I’m taking it up with you. You’re the one who made such a big fucking deal about not taking our father’s money, felt you were too good to take anything he worked himself to the bone to give us. You're the one who made it a point to insult him, everything he’s worked for, provided you with, said you wouldn't take another cent of his tainted money, wouldn’t spend another second in his house, because, if I remember correctly, it was built on blood and lies. But you don't actually mean that, you go back on your high and mighty moral stance when it suits you, huh? You’re no better than Hector, taking dad’s money because you have none of your own.”

Laurel meets his gaze coldly, Frank can feel the ice in it from where he sits, thinks it could probably freeze a lesser man in his tracks, and just stares, unblinking, at her brother. “I honestly have no idea what you mean,” she tells him after a long moment, sounding bored, giving Adrian a chance to back down, to retreat, before things escalate into a true bare-knuckled brawl.

“What I mean,” Adrian says, sneer curling his mouth into something ugly, bowling past the warning Laurel has very clearly left for him. “Is that you can’t have it both fucking ways, Laurel. You can’t tell dad to go fuck himself, tell him that he’s corrupt and that you can’t face yourself if you continue to benefit from his money, and then come back when it suits you and reap those benefits even temporarily.”

Laurel nods once, purses her lips together thoughtfully. “You’re right,” she turns to her father, watching this exchange between his children, inscrutable and unmoving, only his eyes flicking between the two of them, the true predator lying in wait for a fatal injury. “Dad, you know the going rate for beachfront hotels around here, yeah? I’ll have a check out to you for four nights, food and drink too, at whatever that rate is as soon as we get back to Philly.”

Jorge says nothing, seemingly allowing this added gesture from Laurel, this addendum to whatever strange deal they have that allows Laurel to feel like she can live with herself if she maintains a relationship with her family, allows Jorge to pretend he may still exert some control over his youngest child. Frank watches Adrian, sees his glance towards his father, take in Jorge’s impassive expression, watches Adrian change tactics.

“I don't think paying to come down here makes you any less of a hypocrite, kid,” Adrian tells her derisively. “You’re either part of this family, in all it’s ugliness, or you’re not.”

Frank can’t help but wonder if Jorge is enjoying this, the battle of wills between the two children it seems, to Frank at least, he has most time for, the most affection for, the child who has followed most closely in his footsteps and the one who has completely rejected his entire worldview; wonders at the way he allows this jockeying for power and status among his children as though it actually means something.

Laurel tenses next to him, almost like she’s been struck, and Frank thinks, that’s probably not far from the truth. Because, well, it hits close to what he thinks part of her terror is; that she can run but she can’t hide, that no matter what she does, how hard she tries to fix the world, she’s been corrupted by her family, carries that stain and everything she does pales in comparison to the bad things she thinks she’s responsible for, that mark her forever.

He wants to tell her it's not true, that she’s good and kind and yeah, sometimes she does bad things, really bad things, but she’s not rotten, not at her core, not incapable of anything but ugliness. Frank wants to tell her all of this, tell her again and again until she believes him, but he knows it won't be of any use, it’s not for him to convince her, true as it all may be. It's something Laurel has got to figure out for herself. That maybe she’s done bad things, objectively bad things that she won't ever be able to wash out, not as long as she lives, but she’s done good things too, things that have helped people, made their lives better, made the entire world better. And she chooses to do that every goddamn day, tries her damnedest to set the world right, even when it's hard, even when it's painful, and she can’t scrub that slate clean either, can’t erase those good things either.

“You can't play both sides,” Adrian tells her then, something like finality in his words, like a slamming door. “It’s the most dishonest thing you could do.”

And there it is. The thing that Laurel herself probably knows, the choice that Frank suspects she can’t bring herself to make. The choice to walk away from the ugly, dark, violent things, the corruption she knows lies at the core of her family or to remain a part of it because, at the end of the day, it’s still her blood and she can’t help but love them, despite herself.

Frank thinks it was enough of a choice, a fucking sacrifice really, to walk away, to stop relying on her father as the rest of her siblings seem to, to draw the line in the sand and to step across it, to stand up to Jorge Castillo enough to make her position clear. He thinks it was probably a harder thing to do than he can even begin to comprehend, and more dangerous too, thinks few people go against Jorge and expect to walk away, not for very long at least.

“I don't care what you think Adrian,” Laurel says, voice betraying no emotion, though Frank can see her right hand clench under the table, can see the angry cast to her mouth, the creases worsening her frown as her left hand goes to her lips, stroking over the scars on her fingers. “I can live with myself, and you can fuck off.”

“And that right there’s the problem,” Adrian scoffs, pointing at her like he’s sighting her with a gun, like he’s taking aim to finish her off. “You’re fucking selfish Laurel, you've always been selfish and always more concerned with yourself than with this family.”

Something shifts in her then, like a flame igniting. Frank can sense the change, hears Laurel’s sharp intake of breath, sees the way her eyes widen, the way she drives her nails into her palms, can practically feel the vibrating anger.

“Don't you ever say that to me, Adrian. Ever,” she says, and there’s an implicit threat in her words that Frank doesn't think anyone can miss. He thinks she’s not just addressing Adrian, but her entire assembled family. There is an anger so cold it burns in her voice, a finality he wonders at, like she knows she can end the conversation at any time, like they both know she holds the trump card over Adrian. “You know exactly what I’ve done for this family, for him, for you. And if you ever forget that, just remember what I’m still doing. That's a fucking choice I make, every day, and if you don't understand that, then you don't deserve it.”

“The fact that you think you're doing us a goddamn favor proves my fucking point Laurel. That you don't even think you're part of this family, think you’re too good for us. Well, if you are, you should just own it, cut...”

“Adrian,” Jorge cuts in sharply, slicing through his son’s word, silencing him. His voice is low and soft, but commanding. There is no way Adrian will dare to go against his father when Jorge’s eyes are flashing with this dangerous malice. “Enough. I appreciate that you thinking you are trying to defend me, defend your family, but your sister and I, we have an understanding. And you would do well not to minimize that agreement, or jeopardize it, by talking out of turn, by talking out of anger. You understand of course?”

Adrian's eyes flick between his father and Laurel, his jaw clenching as he tries to stifle his rage, and something that Frank thinks smacks of embarrassment, smooth his features into casual unconcern. “Of course dad, yeah.”

The frown Laurel directs at her brother is bladed and dangerous, she’s still practically seething with anger. He thinks she wants to continue this fight, wants to send Adrian to the ground, but wisely chooses to honor the truce her father is insisting on. Whatever threat she’s made, whatever deals are being alluded to, it's something Jorge clearly wishes to remain between himself and Laurel.

Everyone seems to head off to their corners, lick their wounds and regroup for a new battle, and Frank allows himself to relax minutely. He bugs his eyes out at Leo across the table, sees the little boy snort into his drink, apparently unconcerned with whatever just occurred. Laurel’s mouth slides into something that almost resembles a smile, though it seems a little stiff, a little sad and plenty exhausted.

“You think anyone's having a worse Christmas Eve?” Frank asks, leaning over to speak softly in Laurel’s ear, trying to make a joke of it, but he thinks he sounds too somber to make it work. He slides his fingers against the smooth skin of her back as he does, traces an idle pattern for half a second, waits until he feels a tiny portion of the tension ease from her body.

“I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s been bitten by a snake or something,” she quips, a grin slowly spreading across her face.

“Really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you wouldn't prefer the snakebite?

Hector conveniently shows up with drinks soon after that, and Frank’s not stupid enough to think he wasn’t waiting until the danger passed to return; the ice in his drink has melted enough that Frank can see exactly what Hector was up to. Laurel too, takes her drink from him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, her thanks a little too clipped.

Fortunately, the arrival of alcohol seems to keep things calm for the rest of dinner, until it comes time to order desert and coffee.

Somehow Frank gets pulled into a conversation with Colleen and Vanessa about TV shows they think men should like but don't. He’s not a big TV guy, so mostly his input consists of them telling him about a show and then nodding that yeah, it sounds like something men should have no problem watching. Laurel stays silent through most of this, occasionally snickering behind her hands at the more miserable of Frank’s expressions.

It’s only when the waiter arrives to take desert orders that it's discovered that Luna hasn’t finished her pasta, apparently an offense that normally bars her from desert. When Vanessa hands down the decision, Luna, naturally, loses it.

Colleen, who apparently has been placed in charge of Luna for the evening, much like Laurel has been placed in charge of Marco, and, if Frank’s being honest, Leo too, gathers the little girl up and frog marches her towards the bathrooms, maybe to get yelled at, maybe to let her calm down.

He sees Adrian’s eyes darken, his face color as he watches his wife and niece. Once the waiter has retreated with their orders and his wife has still not returned, he decides to instigate another battle.

“Nessa,” he says, too casually, a tiger waiting to pounce. “I think I speak for everyone when I say I really wish you’d learned to parent the kids you have before having more.”

Vanessa looks up, blinks at Adrian slowly. “Adrian, I think I speak for everyone when I say I really wish you’d learned to shut the fuck up.”

Hector, down at the other end of the table, bursts out laughing, high fives his sister over Eric’s head. Frank tries to smother his grin, fails, takes a long sip of water until he can make his face blank and neutral. Even Laurel has an expression something like a smirk, though it flashes across her face and vanishes before Frank is entirely certain he saw it.

So, Frank thinks, Laurel and Hector may criticize Vanessa, may gripe about her unruly kids, but only with affection, with no real malice. He’s glad; they may be a little worse than his siblings’ kids, but they seem generally decent. It makes Frank happy in a way he can’t name, in a place he can't name, deep in his gut, that Laurel takes these kids in stride, doesn't expect them to be perfect, knows their faults and loves them anyway. He thinks, for the hundredth thousandth time, how much he wants a kid with her someday, wants to see what she’s like with one that's theirs. He thinks maybe, that possibility is a little closer than it was yesterday.

Adrian however, takes Vanessa’s insult, continues on. “No really, Ness; I know Brian’s not here, but you’re barely parenting one of them tonight.”

She narrows her eyes at her brother, mouth tight. “I’m sorry, since when are you an expert on parenting? And, more importantly, I don't think I heard your wife complaining about spending time with her niece.”

Adrian scoffs. “There’s a huge difference between spending time with Luna and having to parent her for you.”

“Is there?” Vanessa asks icily. “I think we should ask Colleen about that when she gets back.”

Laurel catches Frank’s gaze then, rolls her eyes. “Here we go,” she mutters in his direction, apparently picking up where this skirmish is headed.

“I think we all know the difference between you foisting your kids on Colleen, on Laurel, and choosing to spend time with them,” Adrian tells her.

“And I disagree,” Vanessa says. “I think Colleen is more than happy to look after Luna. I think if you don't watch out, she’s going to ask you for a baby.”

“What? And you think Laurel’s only watching Marco because she’s got baby fever too?” he asks in disbelief, face turning a deep shade of red.

Vanessa shrugs casually. “I’ve got no idea why Laurel does what she does. But I know what Colleen’s up to. And you’re an idiot if you can't see it.”

The two of them glare at each other across the table for a long moment.

“For the record,” Laurel cuts in before hostilities can resume, casually, jokingly. “It’s cause I like these two,” she says, mugging at Marco and Leo until they giggle. “In small doses. Not cause I want to take them home and raise one of them.”

“But Laurel, darling,” Elena says then, apparently only rousing herself out of her alcohol induced stupor for the important things; namely grandchildren. “You and Frank would make such adorable babies. You too, Adrian,” she adds, gesturing widely with her wineglass at her son. “You and Colleen are so attractive, just imagine how beautiful your children would be.”

Frank snorts and Laurel gives him a look, sending a sharp elbow dangerously close to his ribs. It's true though, he thinks, they would. He’s thought about it a lot actually, hopes Laurel has too, even if it's one of those things she keeps buried down deep, can't acknowledge because it strikes too heavy, too close. How fucking cute a little dark haired girl with Laurel’s eyes would be, a little boy with his grin and her nose. 

“I think I'd rather focus on passing the bar than about how attractive our kids would be,” she says when it becomes clear that Adrian has been rendered mute, red-faced and glowering across the table at his mother.

“Why not both darling? You're not getting any younger you know.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind, Elena, thanks.”

Frank leans over to her then, speaks low, the words only for her. “They would be pretty damn cute though. Gotta give her that much.”

Laurel laughs, quick and light. “They would,” she agrees, taking his hand briefly, and he really hopes she doesn't think he’s joking, that she knows he’s at least partially serious, that he means it and yeah, maybe he wants those cute kids with her more than he can admit. 

Colleen and Luna return shortly after that; the little girl looking appeased, Colleen practically beaming with satisfaction.

“Ten bucks says she offered Luna some of her desert,” Laurel whispers to him as they both take their seats. Frank looks over, takes in the smug look on Luna’s face, the furtive little glances she’s sending her mother and decides that's clearly a sucker’s bet.

“Hell no,” he tells her. “But I’ll wager ten your sister doesn't say anything.”

“Hell no,” she echoes. “Not after that little scuffle with Adrian. Nessa may act like she doesn't care, but she’s gonna do her damnedest to make sure everything stays civil for the rest of the night. And that includes ignoring whatever deal Luna and Colleen have going on.”

“How bout ten bucks that you’ve got a new niece or nephew by this time next year?”

Laurel raises her eyebrows, smiles wickedly. “That I’ll take. I think Adrian will put up a fight for a few months.”

They clink glasses together to seal the bet, and later share a look and a quick laugh when desert is served and Colleen spoons half her key lime pie onto a side plate and slides it in front of Luna.

Frank watches Vanessa’s eyebrows raise in Colleen’s direction, shrug, and let the matter go.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief (and fairly generic) descriptions of violence, though nothing worse than you’d get on the show. But be aware if that's something you’d prefer to avoid (though the violence is central to the plot)...

Dinner ends soon after that, Leo falling asleep, his head against the tabletop, and Marco slumping boneless against Laurel’s side, blinking slow and heavy as he tries to stay awake.

Vanessa bundles Leo in her arms, nudges the other kids out the door with only minimal resistance. Adrian and Colleen duck out at the same time, Adrian stiffly extending an invitation to midnight mass at the local Catholic church to his siblings.

Laurel declines politely; Hector just scoffs and otherwise ignores the offer, taking the conclusion of dinner as an excuse to head back to the bar.

“So when exactly do we get to cut him off?” Frank asks, warily eyeing Hector’s retreating back.

“An hour or the first time he pukes,” Laurel tells him, and Frank can’t entirely tell if she’s serious or not. “Whichever comes first.”

She pushes back from the table and goes to her father.

“You have Hector’s keys, yes?” Jorge asks her affectionately, taking Laurel’s hand for a moment, pressing it between both of his and patting it lightly.

She nods. “I took em when we got here.”

He smiles, stands, tugs her hand and wraps her in a quick hug. Laurel still fails to return the hug, though her posture is finally relaxed instead of stiff and tight. “Good girl.”

“Night dad,” she says with just the hint of a smile.

“Don't be back too late,” he tells her. “You know how early the children wake up for presents.”

“We’ll be right behind you guys.”

Frank catches his cue, stands as well. “Thanks for dinner,” he says to Jorge and Elena, trying to make himself sound sincere. “It was great.”

Laurel’s parents both smile politely and he follows after her back to the bar.

Hector is nowhere to be seen, but Laurel seems to take it all in stride, settling herself back at one of the bar stools in the corner and ordering a beer, inclining her head towards Frank to indicate he should order something as well.

“You think he’s hit the wall yet?” Frank asks after he orders what he swears to himself will be his final drink. But really, he feels he deserves a reward for getting through the evening, making it past the danger.

“Hector?” she asks with a short laugh. “No way. He probably ran into someone he knows. Or snuck into the kitchen to talk shop with the chef.”

“How long you think he’ll be if that's the case?”

Laurel’s mouth quirks. “If he’s talking food, could be all night.”

“Well, at least we’re the ones with the keys.”

She laughs again. “He’d probably kill me if we left him.”

Frank smirks, shrugs. “Well then, thank god for good company.” He nudges her shoulder with his and her grin grows wider.

She leans over, drapes an arm across his shoulder and places a swift kiss against his cheek.

“The hell was that for?” he asks, a little surprised at the gesture.

She shrugs, and Frank sees something harden in her eyes, like she’s putting a glass wall between them. “Wasn't _for_ anything. I wanted to.”

He catches her hand, pulls her close again, lips meeting hers. And when they pull away the wall has crumbled again and she’s just Laurel.

They’ve just received their drinks when a tall man, young and muscled, with a jar-head haircut sidles up to Laurel.

He glances at her, glances back as though recognition dawned on him only after he’d already turned away.

“Laurel Castillo?” he asks from close by her elbow, reaching out to take her arm, thinks better of it. He slides closer though, and Frank feels the sudden stiffness in her body, like she’s trying to turn her skin into armor.

Frank sees Laurel’s exasperated look and something weary and tired flash across her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says, too-tight smile working its way to her face as she turns around.

“I knew it,” the man says, running a hand over his head, smiling widely, snapping his fingers and then pointing at her.

Something prickles against the back of Frank’s neck, little flashes like lightening, like the low warning of danger, but he can’t figure out what it is he should be concerned about. “I knew it as soon as I saw you. It’s Jeff. Engle.”

Laurel nods, mouth small and stiff, takes a lengthy sip of her beer.

“We had English together all through high school. You always let me copy,” he says with that wide, open, expectant grin that rich, half-attractive white boys always have; the kind that made him dislike Asher as soon as he saw him, the kind that almost insists on women’s time, attention, affection. Frank thinks that might be where his discomfort is coming from, but doesn't really think this man is trying to hit on Laurel.

“I remember,” she says shortly.

“What’re you doing back in Florida?” he asks, gesturing with an empty beer bottle to the bartender, wordlessly demanding another. “I would’ve bet money you were gonna head to Chicago or San Fransisco and never look back.”

She shrugs minutely. “It’s Christmas.”

Jeff laughs. “Still, wouldn’t’ve called that. Where you at now, by the way?”

“Philly.”

He nods, laughs again, shows a row of straight, white teeth. “Makes sense.”

“And you?” Laurel asks, gritting the question out, like it physically pains her to ask, like she’d rather be doing anything else.

Frank wonders why this man can’t see it, wonders if he's just ignoring it, doesn't really care what Laurel feels about the conversation. “What’d you do after high school? I thought you joined the Marines or something.”

He nods. “I did. Finished up two years ago. Working for the government in Miami now.”

She hums slightly, trying to affect an interested noise. “ICE or DEA?”

He laughs, wide and loud. “It’s south Florida, Cubans or coke is always a safe bet. Right now it's a little bit of both actually.”

Laurel’s smile is brittle now. “Sounds like you’re enjoying it.”

Jeff grins. “I certainly am,” he takes his drink from the bartender, slides a couple of bills across the bar and turns to leave.

Frank watches Laurel’s shoulders sag as Jeff turns away. He thinks if they weren't in public she’d let her head slump against the bar top.

“Actually though,” Jeff says after he’s gone a few steps, looks back at Laurel like he’s forgotten something important, turns and comes back. “Can I ask you a question?”

Laurel’s smile when she turns around to him could cut glass. “Sure.”

“Alain Serrano?” Jeff asks after a long pause in which he searches Laurel’s face for something. “You know what he’s up to now?”

Laurel’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, and that strange mask closes over her features. Whatever she may know, Frank can tell, she will give nothing away unless she chooses. When she speaks her voice is strange to Frank, too light and too casual. “Last I heard he was in jail,” she says breezily, as though this is nothing out of the ordinary, as though she hasn’t thought about the subject at all and won't as soon as Jeff has left. “I assume he’s still there.”

Jeff’s smile goes predatory, and Frank feels the room shift. Something dangerous is happening, but he’s not sure what it is. “He got out actually,” Jeff tells her slowly, watching her with a cunning look. Frank thinks of a snake, tasting the air, sensing something shift on the wind. “Six months ago. I was wondering if you’d heard from him, I know you two were close in high school, families too.”

Laurel gives Jeff a long, appraising glance, holding his gaze. The mask is still in place, but Frank can see the flashing steel behind it, can see the knives she clutches in her hands. When she speaks her voice is steady, sure. “This wasn’t a chance encounter was it?”

Jeff’s smile almost looks sad, regretful, and spiced with something like guilt. “It wasn’t,” he confirms.

Laurel nods once. “I think we both know who sent you. You can tell him I don't know anything. I haven’t heard from Alain since he got convicted.”

Jeff nods. “I know. But you wrote him.”

Laurel scoffs now, dismissive. “Doesn't mean I heard back.”

“Still, certainly couldn't hurt to check,” he says with a shrug.

“Was that all?” she asks, icily.

“No actually,” Jeff tells her, slipping open the button on his navy sport coat, taking out a manilla envelope Frank thinks cannot possibly contain anything good. He sets the envelope gently on the counter, straightens it so that Laurel’s eyes can’t help but fix on it. “Alain was released six months ago. Two months ago he surfaced in Taos. New Mexico. Any idea why he was there?”

Laurel shakes her head, shrugs. “I don't. I told you, I didn't even know he was out.”

Jeff raises his eyebrows. “Yes, you did.”

Laurel holds his gaze for a long moment. “Am I under arrest?” she asks him casually. “Am I being formally questioned?”

“No,” he tells her shortly, frowning.

“Then I’m done answering questions,” she tells him, something bladed in her voice.

“That’s ok,” Jeff tells her with a smile, seemingly taking Laurel’s ending of the conversation in stride. “I’ll talk, you just listen.”

Laurel’s gaze is cold, but eventually she nods her assent.

His smile is wide, pleased, like they’ve finally made it to the heart of the matter. “Two months ago, following his release, Alain Serrano surfaced in Taos. Dead. Murdered, to be specific.”

For just a moment Laurel stiffens, freezes. Frank watches her, watches her struggle to master her face, her body. She laughs derisively, the sound forced, but he’s still impressed. She looks like she wants to cry, puke, throw something; a thousand emotions are flitting across her face, faster than Frank can count, let alone name, before settling into stillness, like ripples on a lake spreading out until there's nothing left but dark, unmoving water. “And you think I had something to do with it?” she scoffs meanly. Frank thinks he can see tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.

Jeff looks down at her, silent. He takes up the envelope, carefully slides it open. “No,” he tells her slowly, voice level. “I don't think you had anything to do with it. But I think you might know something about it, considering.”

He removes a stack of photos from the envelope, sets one down on the bar top. “Nestor Serrano,” he says, stepping back slightly so that Laurel can see the picture. It’s a man. No, Frank thinks, a corpse, ashy and waxen, clearly dead for some time. His face is frozen in a grimace, ugly and terrible, black blood staining half his face. Frank turns away from the photo, turns his eyes to Laurel. She’s pale, but otherwise seems fine. “Nestor was found dead along with his son. No one had seen or heard from him in ten years.”

Laurel swallows hard and when she speaks her voice catches, but only slightly. Her words sounds tinny and hollow, like they’ve had to travel a great distance. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “I always liked Nestor. Alain too.”

“Did you?” Jeff asks like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “After everything that happened?”

“I did.”

He lays another photo out on the bar, placing it gently on top of the first. Frank doesn't bother to look this time. Laurel’s eyes slide to Frank and she takes his hand under the bar. Her fingers are cold, like she’s just spent an hour in the Philly winter with no gloves.

“Nestor,” Jeff is saying, gesturing to the photo. “Was found shot, executed to be precise. Two shots in the back of his head. Very quick, very neat. Alain was not.”

He spreads out another photo, gestures at Laurel for her to look at it. She doesn't, keeps her eyes fixed somewhere over the bar, blinking rapidly now. Frank strokes his thumb across her knuckles, feels her flinch and recoil from his touch, drop his hand.

And that's when he knows how bad it is, stomach dropping with a lurch that leaves him sick. When things get bad, really, really bad, Laurel retreats into herself, can’t stand being touched, approached, talked to, like every reminder of other people is a blade against her skin.

“Alain was almost certainly tortured; he had a number of injuries to his face and hands, his ribs. Then he was killed by strangulation. Very messy, very painful, very personal,” Jeff says. “As I’m sure you’re aware.”

Laurel is silent, Frank thinks she’s probably a million miles away right now, except then she turns to look at Jeff, fixes him with a gaze that could slice through diamonds, cold and hard. There’s no emotion in her eyes at all.

“We believe whoever killed Nestor waited for Alain to be released, then followed him straight to his father. Tortured and killed the son, made Nestor watch, then took care of him. Took care of what they couldn't ten years ago.”

He places a final photo down like he’s playing the last card of a winning poker hand, practically tasting his victory. “Nestor had a number of enemies, a number of people who were looking for him after everything that happened, which is why we initially expected we probably weren't going to know for sure who was responsible for his death. Until we saw these,” he says gesturing to the final photo.

Laurel keeps her sights fixed on Jeff’s face, refusing to look down.

“Laurel,” he says, an edge creeping into his voice, not quite a command but certainly not a suggestion either. “Take a look. I think you know what you’re going to see.”

She doesn't seem to react, continues to stare, almost unblinking, at him, so he reaches down, grabs her left hand and places it, palm up, against the counter. Frank expects Laurel to resist, to stiffen her body even further, maybe even to take a swing at Jeff, but her arm is as limp and unresisting as a doll’s. He watches her hand creep closed, fingers curling inward and tightening into a fist; slowly, almost against her will, her face crumples in something he can only describe as heartbreak.  
Frank doesn't want to look, knows he shouldn't, knows with everything good inside himself that he should keep his eyes fixed on Laurel. But he doesn't; no matter what he does there’s that dark place inside him that has to know, know every ugly, horrible thing, every damning secret, everything that should stay dead and buried. He thinks, like Laurel, he already knows what he’s going to see.

It's a closeup of a man’s hand, a left hand, fingers curled in death, caked in blood and dirt and decay. But there’s no mistaking what Jeff intended for Laurel to notice, what he thinks ties the case to her.

Across each fingertip there is a familiar horizontal slash, thick and ropey, the skin peeling back from the edges where it was never joined together again. Frank could summon the image of the twin to those injuries in his dreams, has run his hands, his lips, across them more times than he can count, has felt them against nearly every inch of his body, they are more familiar to him than his own hands.

Frank thinks that had Alain Serrano lived, he would have eventually gained five white, waxy scars, thick and raised and ugly and still aching and painful. He wonders what strange little self-soothing gestures of reminder he would have adopted, if any, around these five strange scars, wonders if he too, would stroke them against his lips, his teeth as Laurel does.

He wonders too, with a belated flash of rage and terror so strong it blinds him, sends nausea pounding through his veins, who did this to her all those years ago, who fucking tortured her, what else they did to her that's since faded to invisibility. He wonders, though he wishes he didn't, at what scars still linger, unseen, under Laurel’s skin, whether whoever is responsible for them had intended to kill her too, whether Laurel had expected it in those moments, resigned herself to the idea, that she would wind up as nothing more than a few glossy crime scene photos tucked inside a manilla envelope.

Frank hears a noise like a whimper from beside him, turns and sees the expression on Laurel’s face, horrified and stricken. Her right hand has gone to her mouth, her left still frozen on the bar top. Her hand shakes in fear or shock, even as she stiffens, tries to still the movements of her body.

“You understand, of course,” Jeff says calmly, and it's the most evil sound Frank thinks he’s ever heard; the flat nonchalance of a man wholly unconcerned with the damage and pain and anger and fear he’s caused. “Why we suspect your involvement. Given what happened ten years ago, given what happened two months ago.”

“I don't know anything about it,” Laurel whispers, sounding so far away, though her voice is steady and true.

He shrugs. “But you can’t deny that your father, or your brother; certainly someone connected to you, did.”

She says nothing, continues to stare, unseeing, at the photo, at the scars on Alain Serrano’s hand.

“Right,” he says, nodding in Laurel’s direction a smug expression on his face. “I forgot, you’re done answering questions.” Jeff flashes her a smile too full of teeth, tucks a business card quickly under her beer bottle.

“Well,” he tells her, tapping the edge of the card. “You know our mutual friend. If you happen to learn anything, think of anything that might be helpful, he’d love to hear from you.”

He takes her upper arm, Frank thinks he may give it a little squeeze. “I’m sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances,” he tells her, sounding insincere to Frank’s ears, turning and scooping his photos up, slipping them back in the inner pocket of his jacket. “Merry Christmas.”

Frank half thinks about going after him, about smashing Laurel’s bottle against the bar, leaving Jeff fucking Engle with a permanent reminder of this night, maybe leaving him with five deep little scars to match Laurel’s, to match Alain’s, if he winds up letting him live at all.

But Laurel’s taking these shallow, gasping breaths, her right hand clutching at her chest, her throat, like she wants to claw herself open, shaking so hard he thinks she’s going to drop right out of her stool and Frank knows that no matter how badly he wants to cause this man pain, make him hurt the way Laurel has been hurt, is hurting, it is more important that he stay with her, more important to lessen her pain than that he cause more.

He thinks, in the far, far corner of his brain that isn’t focused entirely on Laurel, that this may be the first time in his sad, pathetic life that he hasn't gladly taken up such a blatant invitation to initiate violence. But what fucking good will it do him, he wonders desperately, it won't change the sunken, desperate, stricken pain on Laurel’s face, won’t go back in time and take away the past hour, won’t take away the past ten years, the panic and choking fear he knows she can't shake, that follows her constantly, a wolf stalking, nipping, at her heels.

No, Frank decides, slicing shards of broken glass across Jeff Engle’s neck won't do him or Laurel a goddamn thing, won't change the fucking situation, which is of course, that someone, Jorge, most likely, murdered two men as some kind of fucking act of long-held retribution; that someone, Nestor Serrano, most likely, fucking tortured Laurel a decade ago for some terrible, selfish purpose.

“Hey,” he says gently, careful not to touch her, not to speak too loudly, he doesn't know what to fucking do, he feels big and clumsy and useless. “Laurel.”

She doesn't seem to hear hear him at all, her breaths have turned rasping and her eyes slide closed. He can see the tears now leaking out of them, sliding down the corners of her eyes onto her cheeks.

She stands like she’s sleepwalking, sliding off the stool stiffly and walking, slowly, then with greater speed out into the hall. She looks half sick, like she’s going to puke, and half like she’s going to chase Jeff Engle down and kill him.

Frank goes after her, he has to.

But before he does, he slips the card out from under Laurel’s beer bottle, turns it over in his hands and stares down at it. He doesn't know what he expected, but when he reads the glossy black lettering it's not shock he feels, not surprise or anger or fear. He just feels sad, heavy, like a lead weight has been tied to his feet, like he’s sinking down to the bottom of the ocean and he knows he’ll never rise again.

_Douglas H. Barrow_  
_Special Agent_  
 _Miami Field Office_  
 _Federal Bureau of Investigation_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so that happened. Sorry. Especially after last week’s ep. Swear I didn’t plan it that way. And there’s more to come… I'm not gonna walk away without an explanation for all of that. But that also means the next five chapters (or so) are gonna be pretty bleak.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warnings for generic mentions of violence...

When Frank finds her, Laurel’s on her knees in a stall in the women’s bathroom, door swinging wide, retching. Between heaves he can hear her cursing, like a mantra, like they're the only words she knows.

He clenches his hands into fists, as tightly as he can, because he wants to touch her, comfort her, hold her hair back if nothing else, can barely contain his desire to do it. But he knows that is the worst thing he can do, knows that with every last good thing within him. He loves her, loves her with every last good thing within him, and the bad parts too, and there’s not a damn thing he’s good for right now, not a damn thing he can do to lessen her pain, her sorrow. He’s fucking useless and his love for her is fucking useless, because if it meant anything at all he would be able to switch places with her, take away some of what she's feeling, take it and make it his, but instead he’s as useless as the sink, the fake silk flowers, as the fucking moon. He might as well not even exist for all he will do for Laurel.

She stands then, begins pacing in quick little steps, back and forth, then dropping to a crouch, her back against the wallpaper, hands threading through her hair, pushing it tight against her scalp. “Fuck,” he hears her repeat in short gasping pants. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

Next comes a string of Spanish too fast for him to begin to try and decipher; even though he thinks she’s repeating herself over and over again, it's too fast for him to catch any single word. Two years and he still doesn't know a damn thing.

“Hey,” he crouches down next to her, tries again, tries to catch her eyes, tries to do something, _anything_. He thinks he’s probably talking more to himself than anything, trying to still his racing heart, and the rising panic in his chest, and tries to breathe around the hard lump in his throat. His teeth clench, jaw tightens, as he forces the rage and fear and confusion down so deep he can’t even acknowledge it, can no longer even tell it exists. “Hey. It’s ok, just breathe, deep breaths.” 

She looks up, looks past him, eyes unblinking and unseeing. Frank has never seen her this bad, this out of control. He doesn't know what to do. He knows he’s talking more for himself than for her. He’s seen her have a panic attack before, twice, if he’s being honest. But never this bad. Both times she looked like she was still present, still herself, was able to pull herself back after a few long, crushing moments of wide-eyed terror. But this, he feels like he’s looking at a stranger, a creature he doesn’t recognize.

“Laurel, hey, please, babe. You gotta come back.”

Her breaths still come quickly, raggedly, like there is something hard and tight in her chest, blocking her throat, strangling her slowly. Laurel’s eyes are wide, fearful, darting around in terror and never fixing on anything for more than the space of a second; Frank wonders if she is capable of seeing anything at all. Her hands continue to thread through her hair, but Frank thinks he sees them shake, he thinks her whole body is trembling so rapidly that it's too fast for his mind to even register, like she’s going to simply break apart before she’s capable of fitting herself together again, all the disparate, dented and damaged parts of her no longer able to hold themselves together with grit and tape and sheer teeth-clenching determination and she’s going to disintegrate into rubble, into dust, into particles of nothingness too fine to even see.

“Laurel,” he says sharply, sharper than he would like, sharper than he thinks he should be. But he knows he needs to cut through the thick, clinging fog of her panic, needs to reach her across the gaping distance she’s retreated to, doesn’t know any way to do that other than this, other than making ignoring him impossible. “Laurel, focus. Eyes up. Now.”

He thinks, hopes, that what worked for the nuns when he was a bored, defiant scholarship student works for him now, hopes that somewhere deep in the recesses of Laurel’s brain also lurks a place that responds to sharp, clipped orders, the kind that nuns favor on the small children in their tutelage. Because, well, if that doesn't work, Frank's not sure what’ll be left to him beyond taking her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to meet his, forcing her to focus on him and to match her breaths with his until she can calm, breathe again, until the panic eases.

She looks up at his sharp words and her eyes are clear, hard and fierce, she barely shakes anymore. Her breathing is still ragged, but he thinks now that its from getting sick more than anything.

He goes to take her arm, but she flinches back, uncomprehending wariness in her eyes. Frank immediately drops his hand, can’t stand the idea of touching her longer than he has to when it's clear the feeling of another body against hers practically burns. 

He wants to ask if she’s ok, thinks better of it, knows she’s not.

Laurel takes a long, deep breath, shuddering and torn. She slumps further to the ground, drawing her knees to her chest, takes more slow, steady breaths. Frank drops down onto his knees beside her, hovering over her but still not daring to touch her. She raises her eyes to his again, doesn't glance away. “So now you know,” she says, voice low and even, completely devoid of emotion, something like finality in her voice. “Or know enough of it. Know what he’s capable of, what _I’m_ capable of.”

“I know you didn't have anything to do with that,” he says, certain. Not because he knows that there was no way she was in Taos, New Mexico two months ago to commit a double murder, but because he can see in her eyes how disgusted, how inconsolably grief-stricken she is. “I know you, Laurel Castillo, and I know you didn't do that.”

She laughs, bleakly, hopelessly. “I did, though. He did it because of me, for me. Because of what I did for him.”

“No,” he tells her firmly, holding her eyes. “He did it for himself. You know that.”

She frowns, and Frank has the distinct feeling that he’s missed something fundamentally important when she speaks again, voice flat, leaving no room for further discussion. “It is my fault Frank, because I didn’t talk, wouldn't let Hector confess everything. I let this happen because I know what he is and I didn't do anything to stop him, not when I had the chance, and not now.”

“Laurel,” he tells her, knowing she’s not going to believe him, but needing to tell her anyway, if only for himself. “You’re not responsible for the things he does.”

“You don’t understand,” she tells him with a long sigh.

“I don't need to understand,” he tells her, firmly, feeling like he’s telling her something so, so important, hopes she listens, hopes she gets it. “Cause I know you can't be responsible for other people’s actions, can't put responsibility on other people for the shitty, terrible things you may do, and can't blame yourself when they go and do awful things. I know that, Laurel, and you do too.”

She nods seriously, firmly, eyes hard. “Yeah, I know that.”

Frank thinks whatever conversation Laurel thinks they’re having, it's not the same one as he thinks they are. They’re talking in riddles, at cross-purposes, talking around each other. But he lets it go, this is not something he can solve, not in one night, probably not ever.

Laurel looks up at him, holds his eyes for a long moment. He can see affection in them, somewhere deep and buried, down beneath the anger and fear and pain. There’s a determination in her eyes too, a determination so complete he wonders at what decision she has just made, hopes it is not what Frank thinks it must be.

“You gonna be alright?” he asks gently, trying not to focus on Laurel’s hands, on the way there’s still a slight tremble in her limbs, her fingers still shaking almost imperceptibly, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

“Let's get outta here, ok?” he suggests, rising to a crouch, offering her his hand.

Laurel nods, looks at his outstretched fingers for a long moment before taking them, softly, in her own. Something eases in his chest, the roaring waves of panic still as their hands meet. She may be shaken, damaged and dented, but he thinks she’s come out the other side, seems back to herself and he thinks they'll make it through, thinks that despite Jeff Engle’s best efforts, Laurel will be ok, will come out stronger, tougher.

“Where you think your brother’s hiding?”

At that Laurel drops back to the floor, a sharp gasp slipping from her lips. Her left hand clenches into a fist, rising against her will to her lips. Her breath comes again in a rasping pant, like its slipping out against something tight and locked, her eyes are wide and terrified, all the whites showing, pupils blown wide. “Hector,” she breathes when she finally regains her voice. “Engle’s gonna go after Hector.”

She springs to her feet, Frank following close behind her, his stomach dropping. Because yeah, _fuck_. If someone went after Laurel, they’re bound to go after the rest of her family, Hector included. And if this is how Laurel responded to Engle’s intrusion, Frank thinks that Hector, with his barely contained anger and pain, is going to react much, much worse. Laurel must agree, because she rushes back to the bar, catches the bartender’s eye.

“The guy I was with?” she begins, and Frank can hear the catch in her voice, the low note of panic.

The bartender nods even before Laurel’s finished. “Went out the back,” he tells her with an incline of his head in the direction of the service door off the side of the bar. “Some guy gave him bad news I think.”

Frank hears Laurel curse under her breath as she follows the bartender’s nod, heads towards the back door. 

“Thanks,” he tells the guy as he follows her.

He catches the fire door as it swings shut behind Laurel, follows her out to the loading dock. Hector’s across the parking lot, pacing rapidly in front of a large dumpster. He has a beer bottle clutched in one hand, taking long swigs as he turns back and forth. He sends a rapid punch to the metal side of the dumpster, then another, the sound ringing out sharp and heavy like a thunderclap, like a gunshot, as he turns.

“Fuck!” he grunts as he sends another punch to the metal side of the dumpster, turns and paces a few steps away before turning back again. “Goddamn shit fuck!”

Laurel steps forward hesitantly, jumps down from the loading dock and goes towards her brother. He can see the caution in her stance, in what he thinks is the trembling in her limbs, in the slow movement of her body. He marvels at the complete change in her, he can still see the fear, the sorrow, bubbling low, still simmering behind her eyes, but she’s pushed it down, deep, focus turned to Hector, to soothing his threatening panic. 

“Hector,” she calls softly, warmth slipping into her voice. “Hey.”

Frank thinks he ignores her, or doesn't hear her at all. He takes another pull of beer, curses as Laurel sidles up behind him.

“Hey,” she calls again, reaching out to grasp his shoulder, turn him around, make him face her so she can soothe him.

Hector whirls as Laurel’s hand makes contact with his body, and Frank feels a belated surge of warning at the look in Hector’s eyes; fearful and terrified, certainly, but also dark with rage.

“Laurel!” Frank calls sharply, a second too late. Hector has already shattered the bottle against the side of the dumpster, glass exploding everywhere, and has swung wildly towards the body behind him with the jagged neck of the bottle still clenched in his hand.

Laurel falls back, sensing the threat herself, but Hector is already slashing at her face, or her eyes or her neck, too fast for her to step clear. Frank’s brain can barely comprehend what’s happening, can’t process what he’s seeing. She doesn't duck, and time freezes as the glass edges closer and closer to ripping through her flesh.

And then, at the last second Frank thinks, her right hand shoots up, coming between the flying glass and her face, trying to shield herself from the flashing razor-sharp bottle, though Frank can’t tell whether she’s gotten her arm up in time, protected herself.

There’s a cry from Laurel, a gasp that sounds less a shout of pain and more like surprise, confusion. And one from Hector that sounds like a guttural growl, a scream of rage.

And blood is blooming, hot and fast and red against the black of the night, against Laurel’s pale, pale skin, falling so hard, so steady, that Frank’s stomach lurches, freezes. He cannot tell where it's coming from, all he sees is red. His body is moving forward before he realizes it has, vaulting over the edge of the loading dock, racing towards Laurel. He must continue to breathe, but there’s a tightness, a heaviness in his chest, a cold rising horror he’s not sure he can control, not sure he’ll ever be able to shake. There’s a tingling in the tips of his fingers too, a boiling rage that needs release, somehow, somewhere, though he’s not sure that will be a solution for the hard knot of burning panic in his throat.

He thinks for half a second that Hector is going to strike again, he jabs forward again like he’s going to try another slash, swings his arm towards his sister again, when he freezes, simply stops moving.

Frank can see him blink, slowly, then faster, mouth falling open. He stares at Laurel for a long moment, then down at his hand, uncomprehending. He raises the bottle slowly, still staring at it, as though he cannot understand what it is, how it has appeared in his hand. Frank thinks maybe that's true. He reaches Laurel then, feet skittering against the rough ground, grasps her arm, pulls her back and slides his body between Hector and Laurel. 

Frank pushes, hard, against Hector’s chest with both hands, sends him stumbling backwards against the dumpster. He’s swinging then, fist crashing into the soft flesh of Hector’s stomach, once, twice. There’s that familiar sick thudding impact, the sound of skin and bone and muscle colliding with the same, the feeling of his knuckles sliding against skin. The adrenaline is ringing through his veins, setting off little crackles like lightening in his fingertips, setting his heart thudding steady and loud in his ears. He doesn't want to knock Hector out, he wants to incapacitate him so completely, so thoroughly, he cannot ever pose a threat again.

But Hector collapses instantly, doubling over, a gasping, wheezing noise issuing from his mouth, trying to suck in long breaths, failing.

Frank steps towards Hector again, his hands in fists, loose, and held ready to defend Laurel, protect her, if Hector attacks again. If he swings again, Frank decides, he will lay him out, will not stop until Hector is down and unable to rise. But then there’s something between him and Hector, a pressure against his chest, urging him backwards, away from the fight. And something in him demands compliance with that pressure, answers instantly to the force against his skin, eases and calms like violent churning water suddenly still.

“Frank!” Laurel’s voice cutting through the static, his rage and violence, loud and edged with anger. “What the _fuck_?” Her hand still pressed hard against his chest, fingertips over his heart, as though she thinks she can hold him back, hold his rage and violence at bay. She half turns to Hector, eyes worried, looks up at him even as she continues to try and hold Frank back.

“Get away from him,” she tells him, voice harsh, accusing, laced with an anger he’s rarely seen in her, let alone seen directed at him. “Don't touch him again.”

Frank wants to focus on her, wants to know she’s fine, alright, uninjured. But his eyes slide past her to Hector, to the still-present threat. Hector goes upright, rising again until he’s standing, now staring at the jagged remnants of the beer bottle, then he lifts his eyes to his sister. He stumbles back, bottle dropping from his fist, shattering against the concrete. 

Hector slumps against the dumpster, knees going out from under him, but Frank has already turned away from Hector, turned to Laurel, now that the threat is gone, the rage and burning anger fading, vanishing like the tide rushing out. As Hector collapses, it seems Laurel does too, her spine seems to bow, her shoulders fold in, it looks to Frank like she’s shrunk six inches in a matter of seconds. All the anger, all the fierceness, all the strength she had in protecting her brother, it's evaporated into nothing and she’s just a tiny, scared girl, her face pale and crumpled in pain.

“Laurel, babe, hey, please, please,” he’s whispering, trying to take her hand, trying to figure out where the blood is coming from. Both his hands go to her face, her cheeks, staring into the depthless blue of her eyes, tangling in the twisted strands of her hair. He wants to kiss her, he wants to scream at her, he wants to never let her go. There are fat, heavy drops of blood against her face, splatter against her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, but as he searches her face he can see nothing spreading, none of the drops growing, none of the quick, blossoming blood he expects.


	24. Chapter 24

But she then lets out a little gasp, raises her right hand, arm curling tight against her chest. There is blood dripping between her fingers, down her arm, sticky and thick and Frank’s stomach lurches, tilts so hard he thinks he’ll be sick, thinks he might pass out. There is far more blood on the ground than he expected, far more than Laurel can afford to be losing this quickly. Her face is tight with pain, pale and stricken.

“Lemme see it,” he tells her softly, trying to tamp down the fear and nausea rising in his chest, making his breathing tight. He swallows thickly, trying to regain his breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He can’t think about how close she came to the bottle connecting with her face, her throat, ripping across her skin, cannot think about how much worse it could have been than a gash across her palm, cannot think about how he’d like to do the same to her brother.

Laurel frowns, hesitates a long minute, and then holds her hand out to him, still clenched tightly.

He stands, takes her hand, uncurls her stiff fingers. Blood bubbles up from a long, jagged ugly looking cut running across the center of her palm, spills down over her hand, falls and splatters, heavy and wet against the ground. “Shit,” he breathes, fighting against the nausea in his throat. “Shit, Laurel. That’s bad.”

“I know,” she says tightly, curling her hand into a fist again, sending the little pool of blood cascading over her palm, through her clenched fingers. “I know.”

“I think you’re gonna need stitches,” he tells her, voice hardly louder than a whisper.

Laurel nods. “Probably,” she agrees, staring at the fat drops of blood that splatter against the ground by her feet. Her hand is crushed tight against her chest again, left hand cradling it, tight and protective.

“It hurt bad?” he asks, feeling like an idiot for asking questions he knows the answer to.

She smiles, stiff and vacant. “No, not so bad.”

“Liar,” he tells her.

Laurel laughs, the sound startling Frank. He cannot think where the sound comes from.

“We need to get you to a hospital I think.”

She nods, sighs heavy and shattering. “Yeah.”

Frank turns, remembering her brother. He’s still slumped, boneless against the concrete, back against the dumpster. He’s staring vacantly at his sister, something working repetitively in his jaw.

“Hector,” Frank barks, watching how Hector’s eyes jump to him, but skitter away, back to Laurel as though his brain cannot think of anything else until he understands what’s happened, what he’s done. Frank wants to be angry, wants to rage at Hector, ask him what the fuck he was doing, how he could attack his sister; but he can't. Because he thinks if he had touched Laurel back in the bathroom, she would have hit him too, would have come at him with everything she had, everything at her disposal, wouldn't have stopped until she’d left him broken, shattered, defeated.

Whatever Jeff Engle dredged up in Hector, Frank suspects it's as bad as what he unearthed in Laurel, some horrible painful thing that lurks in the dark corners of his mind, never truly forgotten, always ready to leap out of that darkness with snarling fangs and rage and violence, and he’s not sure he can fault the kid for reacting with that same rage and violence. He’s not even sure Hector had any idea where he was, who he was; thinks he was probably years in the past, mired in what is likely the worst moments of his life.

But, even so, fuck him, Frank thinks. Because he has got to get his shit together, and help his sister, has got to stop hurting Laurel, both literally and figuratively, because he cannot take responsibility for himself, for his own actions, his own cowardice and fear. Frank’s not sure he gives a shit where Hector thought he was, who he thought Laurel was, because he still fucking tried to kill his sister and now she’s the only one of them actually able to think clearly. “Hector,” he says again, voice low like a threat. “Get inside and get a bar towel. Now.”

Hector’s eyes swing slowly to Frank, and there remains something dull and lifeless in his eyes, something distant. Yeah, Frank thinks, it's like calling to a man at the edge of space, the signals distorted and weak like Hector has to sift through crackling static to even realize he’s being spoken to.

“Hector,” Laurel says softly, voice even, cautious, coming up beside Frank, both of them standing over her crumpled brother. She sinks to her knees in front of him, reaches out with her left hand, takes his elbow. Frank’s brain skitters, skips it's track; he cannot comprehend how or why Laurel is comforting her brother, that her brother just sliced her hand open with a beer bottle, and that she is the one trying to bring him back to himself, ease his panic and fear instead of the other way around. There is something steady, practiced in her voice, as though this is a familiar ground. Her voice is soothing, prompting; as though she’s talking to a small, scared child. She doesn't touch him, but uses her body to surround him, protect him and shield him from the rest of the world, angling herself so that she is all he sees. “Hector, I need you to go inside and bring me a bar towel. Please.”

“A bar towel?” he echoes hollowly.

“Yeah. A bar towel,” she nods, urges him on. “Can you do that for me?”

Hector stands slowly, haltingly, stumbles towards the fire door.

“Go with him please,” Laurel whispers after they both stand. Her eyes are fixed on Hector’s back, unblinking, though Frank thinks he can see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“What was that, Laurel?” he asks, sounding harsher than he intended, voice low and angry.

“Please just go with him Frank,” she tells him, soft and almost desperate.

“Ok,” he nods, grasps her left hand briefly, and follows after her brother. He’s barely reached the fire door though, when Hector bursts out, wad of rough cotton towels grasped in his fists. He presses them into Frank’s hands, freezes in the doorway, doesn't follow after Frank as he drops to the concrete and meets Laurel halfway across the lot. Frank thinks, numbly, that Hector was only capable of following orders, only capable of taking the direction given to him, not of actual independent thought, not while the fear is still rising, threatening to overwhelm him. He could focus on Laurel’s voice, focus on her directions, but his mind is still suck deep in the quicksand of his memory.

“Go to the car Hector,” he calls over his shoulder as he hands the towels to Laurel, helps her wrap the towel around her fist, staunch the rising flow of blood, hoping that he’s right, that Hector will simply follow the directions as given. He has no idea if Hector complies, and he honestly doesn't care, thinks that it would serve Hector right to be left behind. But then he feels a sharp pang of guilt, of something that may approach empathy towards Hector, for whatever attack he faced from Jeff Engle, whatever has sent him careening into this chasm of fear and rage and grief. Because if what was done to him was half as bad as what Frank suspects was done to Laurel, well, he’s not sure he would be able to handle things any better.

Frank wraps the bar towel around Laurel’s hand, tucks the edges tightly against her fist, tries to catch her eyes. He takes another, uses it to softly wipe the flecks of blood on her cheeks, forehead. Laurel’s eyes slip closed and she exhales long and slow.

“Engle went after Hector too, right?” Frank asks as he finishes. “Do you think he knew anything?”

Laurel frowns, shrugs. “I have no idea,” she says, sounding lost, bewildered, as though she too, has no idea how she’s gotten to this point.

“Ok,” Frank nods. “Stupid question.”

They make it to the car without incident, where Frank realizes that no one is in any position to drive. He’s tried to pace his drinking over dinner, not get too far gone, but he’s smart enough to know he should not be driving, not for another few hours. Hector, of course, is nowhere near able to drive, wouldn't be capable of driving even if he wasn't likely still in the middle of a panic attack.

Fuck, Frank thinks, starts laughing, wild and crazed. Because he’s not a hundred percent sure Laurel’s capable of driving either, not when the towel wrapped around her hand is already turning dark and sticky with blood.

She looks at him, at her brother, goes to the driver’s door. Her expression gives nothing away, nothing like anger or pain, just something he thinks may approach exhaustion.

Frank gets in beside her. “We could call a cab,” he offers uselessly.

She doesn't respond, doesn't give any indication that she’s even heard him, just fits the key in the ignition with the unbandaged tips of her fingers, turns the key.

Hector scrambles into the backseat when it's clear Laurel isn’t going to wait around for him. He seems a little more like himself, a little more present, the dull, vacant look in his eyes easing slightly. Frank thinks time may help; time and being given orders, having a goal.

“Don't ever touch him again Frank,” Laurel says, voice a frigid command, her words full of a quiet anger so cold it licks at him like tongues of flame. He’s not sure he’s ever heard her quite so angry with him, not even when he was being an admittedly huge asshole.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, unsure how he can explain that he thought Hector was going to kill her, or gut her, or something, unsure of how to get Laurel to understand what he was thinking or not thinking, because she clearly, despite evidence that he will, that he did, doesn't think Hector poses any kind of threat to her, believes that he won't hurt her. He doesn't even know how to explain how fucking terrified he was, how the singular thought in his mind was that he needed to protect her or she’d be killed.

“No,” Laurel cuts him off instantly, her words like a blade. “This isn't a discussion. Either you never touch him again or you need to get out of the car.”

“Laurel,” he protests.

“No,” she repeats. “Even if he has a gun to my head you will never put a hand on my brother again or you will get out of this car, right now.”

“Is this…” he begins, unable to finish the sentence, because he’s not really sure he’s capable of saying them, acknowledging that Laurel is giving him some kind of ultimatum, some kind of bright line in the sand that he either agrees not to cross or that's it.

“It's not a deal breaker,” she says, something softening in her voice, but Frank thinks it's like the softening of mountain snow, ready to crack and spill and crush everything in its path on its way down the valley. “But you’ll need to find your own way back tonight.”

“Ok,” he breathes.

“You understand?” she asks him, still not looking at him, as though she can’t, as though she won't allow herself to believe that she’s talking to Frank and not some faceless, nameless unimportant body.

“I don't,” he admits. “But I won't touch him again.”

“Good,” she says, and there’s a moment when he thinks she almost smiles, when she glances at him out of the corner of her eye and the blue of her eyes seems just a little clearer. 

“But anyone else Laurel,” he tells her roughly. “Anyone else tries to hurt you like that, I’m gonna fucking kill them.”

“Frank,” she says warningly, and the tightness in her jaw returns, suddenly. “You can’t decide what battles to fight for me.”

“I’m not gonna just sit there and let you get shanked,” he tells her, anger surging in him, hot and thick, but also confusion; he’s completely bewildered as to why she’s angry at him for protecting her, for wanting to keep her safe. He feels a little like the floor has dropped out from under him, like the world has shifted and tilted under his feet and he should feel like he’s falling but instead he’s just floating or sliding or fumbling through the air.

Laurel makes a noise, like a growl or a scoff, but says nothing further, just tightens her fingers against the steering wheel and ignores him.

They’re stopped at a light when Laurel speaks again, glances up in the rearview and addresses her brother. “Hector,” she says sharply, and Frank watches Hector’s head jerk up, eyes hollow. “Are you with me?”

He’s silent, still looking stricken, haunted, for a long minute. Frank thinks that with anyone else, Laurel would be pressing for a response, for an answer. But not Hector.

“Jesus, Laurel, I’m so, so fucking sorry,” Hector rasps once she begins to drive again and she moves her eyes back to the road. Frank thinks he sounds about ready to cry, voice cracking and hopeless. There's still something a little robotic in his tone as though he’s not really hearing his words, not really comprehending, as though he’s still far far away from his body.

“Did you know Alain got released?” she asks harshly, ignoring his apology.

“What? No, he got something like fifteen, didn't he?”

Laurel shrugs, doesn't answer for a long minute. When she speaks, her voice is still harsh, clipped. “That asshole Engle talked to you, didn't he? What did he say?”

“He came after you too? What the fuck, L?” Hector tries again, tries to fit the pieces together. His voice sounds rushed, breathy, as though the panic is surging in him once again, as though he’s still trying to understand how he’s come to be where he is.

“What did he say to you?” she asks again, tightly, ignoring his questions, bowling past them as though they’re unimportant.

“Nothing,” Hector says, almost sounding like a question, voice going flat as though he’s repeating without thinking what was told to him, as though he can’t let his brain focus on the words, let himself think on what they mean. “Just told me I should flip, turn dad in. Told me that it was obvious I hated him, that I should just give him up, feel better about things.”

Laurel gives him a look in the rearview mirror, angry and incredulous.

“He mentioned Nestor, what happened. Said he knew I’d wanted to talk back then, wondered why I hadn’t, why I haven't since. That was it.”

“And Alain?” she prompts again, insistent. “Did he say anything about him? About being released?”

Hector sighs heavily. “L, I don't know shit about Alain getting released.”

Frank sees Laurel’s left hand tighten on the wheel, sees her jaw clench. He knows she’s angry, can see her trying to stifle it, wishes she wouldn't. Because Frank knows she’s kept this anger inside her for a decade, refusing to acknowledge it, feel it, but he knows that it's eating her alive, turning into something black and festering and dead. Laurel thinks it makes her strong to have this victory over her emotions, to be able to say when and where she feels them, but Frank knows the opposite is true; that it makes her weaker for not feeling, turns her into a bomb, waiting to blow, or something stiff and barely alive. “Well, he was. Released. Went straight to his father. Lead someone straight to him.”

“And now he’s fucking dead?”

“And now he’s fucking dead,” Laurel confirms. “Both of them.”

Hector sighs, weary, lets his head fall back against the headrest, looks up at the roof of the car. “Goddamnit.”

They’re both silent for a long, long moment. “Whoever did it gave Alain these before they killed him,” Laurel tells him, holding up her left hand, wiggling her fingers at him. She says it like its nothing, like what was done to her was nothing, just a quirky, funny coincidence that Laurel and Alain Serrano have the same marks on their hands, that what was left on their skin occurred by some happenstance, like a birthmark, and not fucking torture.

Hector looks up, sighs again, flops his head back again. “Dad.” It is not a question.

When Laurel speaks her voice is stiff with emotion, as though she’s trying to hold herself back, keep herself at bay, keep from lashing out. “Did you know, Hector?”

Frank glances back in the rear-view mirror. The look on Hector’s face is like he’s been betrayed. “Fuck, Laurel, no. No!”

She nods, imperceptibly. “I was wrong Hector,” she tells him then, somber. “When I wouldn't let you call the cops, wouldn't let you talk when you wanted to, confess everything. You were right, and I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks making a strangled noise, looking up, leaning forward.

“This is all my fault. For not listening to you, for forcing you to go along with what I thought was best. And I’m sorry.”

“L,” Hector tells her, voice dropping so low Frank has to strain to hear him. “Whatever he did, it's not your fault.”

“It is,” Laurel says, voice shaking, hands shaking against the wheel. “I thought he’d listen to me, thought he’d fucking listen to me for once because of what I did for him. Because I protected him. He promised me. But he promised to kill Nestor too.”

“Laurel,” he begins, a note of warning sounding high and clear, like a bell, to Frank’s ears. “Don't do anything stupid.”

“I’m not,” she tells him flatly, face going expressionless. “This time I’m not going to be stupid.”

And Frank knows, with everything in him, that she’s absolutely decided to do something stupid, something that will likely result only in death or incarceration, in blood and pain. He thinks she knows it too, thinks that whatever decision she’s made, Laurel’s concluded it's the only way out, the only ending that will, if not set things right, not make them worse. He can tell by her expression, closed off, blank and shuttered. He can tell by the way she’s refusing to look at him, because he’s sure she thinks he will try and talk her out of it. He probably will.

Because whatever her father did, it's over, there is nothing that can be done to fix the past, and that's what he thinks Laurel’s trying to do, trying to mend things that are broken beyond repair at the cost of fixing herself, trying to go back before everything started hurting, before she knew how cruel and awful the world is. And Frank, he loves her too much to let her do that, let her destroy herself to fix something he’s dead certain can’t be fixed by more violence or pain. Not for her at least, and not by her.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, warnings for mentions of violence. Mostly vague still, but more extensive than in previous chapters.
> 
> Also, this is a long one, but I didn't think there was any good place to break it up, so...

It's only after they’re seated in the emergency room, have been there, by Frank’s count, for fifty two minutes, the towel around Laurel’s hand getting redder and redder, beginning to leak blood, that Laurel acknowledges him again. He thinks that whatever decision she’s made, she’s certain of it now, the path has been fixed and Frank can yell and scream and beg all he wants, but his words will be useless against her, like throwing paper airplanes against a wall.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him when she does speak. “I wouldn't have invited you if I’d known it was going to be like this.”

“I don't care about all that,” he says and he means it. “I love you, no matter what.”

Frank wants to tell her he doesn't care what's been done to her, what she's done, what she’s going to do. He loves her regardless; he loves her with all of that stripped away because none of things that surround her matter, it's only Laurel that matters to him. And he loves her, doesn't ever want to be anywhere else but next to her. But he doesn’t say any of that, because he knows that's not anything that will do any good right now, and that she needs him to be silent.

She sighs, turns away from him, stares at Hector who is positively slumped in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, asleep, or passed out Frank thinks. He thinks if anyone deserves to sleep off this disaster of a night, it's not fucking Hector. He half wants to wake the kid up, give him a swift kick in the ribs, send him tumbling to the floor. But Laurel’s already laid down that line; thou shalt not hit shitty, irresponsible, sometimes violent, certainly traumatized brothers. He wants to bowl on past that ultimatum; wants to, but won't, and he knows it. He’s pissed, beyond pissed, really, his blood practically boiling as he thinks of it; that she’s stuck up for Hector, already excused and forgiven him for whatever PTSD flashback sent Hector ready to slice his sister in two. But he gets it, even if he doesn't like it. Loyalty’s a strange thing as Frank well knows, and he can’t always hope to see the bottom of the things that tie people together, see the nameless dark that binds them, forever, together.

“Laurel,” he says she continues to stare silently at her brother, ignore him. “Talk to me.”

“About what?” she asks, skewering him with a blank look.

He laughs, ironically. “About what the fuck is going on. About who the fuck Nestor is and why he wound up dead. About what you’re planning on doing.”

Her eyes go hard for a moment, then it fades to sadness. “You know most of it already,” she says. “And I don't want to tell you the rest.”

“Please,” he says, begging. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he’ll be able to reach her again. “We’re a team you and me. I meant that. But you gotta talk to me.”

She gives him a look like she doesn't quite believe him.

“Wasn't that our deal?” he asks gently, hating that he has to go to this place, hates that he has to dredge up the worst of both of them. “That we’d always be honest, never keep anything important from each other. We have to do that, Laurel, or we might as well call it quits now.”

She sighs hard. “That was the deal,” she admits flatly. He thinks she wants to point out that that deal was mostly designed to address Frank’s long, storied history with all manner of illegal activities, but well, a deal is a deal and he’s let her slide on her end of it too long, assumed that what little there may be was mostly to do with her dad. He realizes now that he was right, even as he was hopelessly, laughably, pathetically wrong.

“I’m not gonna quit loving you, no matter what you tell me.”

Laurel just frowns.

“I’m not,” he insists. “You love me despite everything. I’m not gonna cut and run if you tell me something hard to hear.”

He watches her eyes slide to her toes, watches her deep, slow breaths, the way her spine suddenly goes straight, stiff. Frank thinks she’s steeling herself to answer, barrels forward before she can second guess herself, rethink her decision to answer, to lay herself open to him.

“Let’s start easy, huh?” he suggests gently. “Who’s Nestor.”

Laurel sighs, glances at her hands. Her left hand closes into a tight fist, slides closer to her body as though she just wants to hide herself, hide any memory of what happened. “He and my dad worked together.”

“Ok,” he tries to give her an encouraging smile. “Why’d your old man want him dead?”

“No,” she says then, harshly, slamming her left hand against her armrest of her chair, against her thigh. “I’m not going to lie to you. Not anymore. Nestor was my dad’s number two. _That’s_ who he was. But he wanted more, because he was greedy, because my dad turns people greedy.”

“Ok,” Frank nods, trying to keep his voice steady and level, like he’s talking to a panicked animal, a child who's just woken from a nightmare. “And that’s why he’s dead?”

“No,” Laurel says. “He’s dead because he tried to stage a coup and he failed.”

“How’d he do that?”

She makes a vague noise, a gesture that's almost like a shrug with her hands. “He tried to sell my dad out to a rival cartel, made some deal with them so he’d be in charge of their Miami trade.”

“Your dad’s a drug dealer?” Frank asks, knowing the answer, but wanting the confirmation. He doesn't know why he cares so much that he get it, but it seems important, crucial that this, this basic fact about Laurel, about her father, that has never been spoken of, never really even alluded to, be confirmed. He wants to know she trusts him with the knowledge of who she really is, where she really comes from, the bad things that she hides behind silence and steel and polite smiles.

“My dad’s a lot of things, Frank,” she says, as though she is still unable to come out with it, crack the door open wide enough to let him see inside at the carnage. She fixes him with a half-smile, lopsided and dangerous and ironic. “Some legal, some not. But a dealer, no, he’s not a dealer. He’s more like the man who employs the men who employ the dealers.”

He says nothing, waits for her to continue. Somehow he knows she will.

“That’s part of it, the drugs. He imports, distributes, no dealing for a guy like him. He’s got a protection racket; smuggles things, people, in from Cuba, hell, anywhere really. He’ll rent you a good hitman too, if you need one. Might even do it himself if the pay’s decent.”

“He’s a regular jack of all trades,” Frank says sarcastically.

“Anywhere the money’s good,” Laurel agrees. “He’s more Vito Corleone than Tony Montana. And Nestor wanted what dad had.”

“So what, Nestor tried to off him or something?”

Laurel shrugs, goes quiet. Frank thinks they’re now approaching the heart of the matter, the place where things go horrible, the place where he’s not sure he really, truly wants to go, except he has to. He’d follow Laurel anywhere, even here. “Long story short, yeah. He couldn't pull it off, and wound up with two cartels after his head.”

“But that should be the end of the story,” Frank says, half phrasing it like a question. “‘He takes off and ten years later winds up dead.’ Where d’you play into all this?”

Laurel frowns, so deeply Frank’s not sure she’ll ever be able to smile again. He can see her begin to tremble, see her drive her fingernails into her palm, so hard he knows it's painful. Her shoulders fold forward, hunched and curved, like she's trying to collapse in on herself, fade into nothingness like a dying star.

“It should've been, but it wasn't. I guess he hated dad more than anyone really knew. Or was desperate, thought if he did what he did he could clear the slate with his new friends. He broke into the house with a couple of _sicarios_. Dad was out. It was just me and Hector. Nestor thought we were hiding him or something, hiding the coke and the money and dad’s contacts. I don't know. Or he just wanted to make a fucking point, just wanted to make us suffer, make dad _know_ we suffered.”

“And that’s when those happened?” Frank nods vaguely at her hand, feeling sick, feeling cold and sad and tired. He takes her hand, smooths his fingers over the scars, feeling the hard, raised flesh, thinking about how close he probably came to losing her before he even found her, thinking of how terrified and betrayed she must have been, how much pain she must have felt.

He wants to scream. He blinks hard, rapidly, glances away from Laurel for long seconds so she won't see his face, the effort it takes him to remain blank and stony and expressionless, so she doesn't see the splintering cracks in that armor. He exhales once, slowly, and when he draws a breath in again he’s pushed his emotions away, buried them in some shallow grave, ignored and abandoned.

Laurel nods. “That’s when those happened. He kept asking me questions, about where dad was, about where dad kept important papers, what the combo to the safe was. Hector thought it mattered, thought it would make things stop, would give up the answers. I’d tell him a different answer, convince him it wasn't true, tried to buy us some time, protect my dad.”

“What else he do?” Frank growls, hands gripping hers like if he lets go she will drift away, vanish. He can't fucking think, can’t fucking breathe. He wants to kill something, thinks her dad was right to torture and murder anyone responsible for this, he hopes Jorge made it last fucking _days_.

His jaw is stiff, tight, teeth clenched so hard he thinks they will shatter, the lump in his throat swelling until he can barely breathe for it. He’s still blinking fiercely, like he’s caught in a whipping wind, eyes open wide so that he leaves no room for tears, no room for weakness in himself, not when Laurel needs him to be strong.

“Frank,” she says warningly, but then she sighs, takes his hand, places it on her knee. When she speaks again it's stuttering, halting, as though she doesn't want to remember, doesn't want to tell Frank, as though she’s pulling the memories out with gritted teeth, with all her strength. “He roughed us up a bit. Me and Hector. Cracked a couple of my ribs, broke Hector’s nose, nothing too bad, but...” she trails off, starts again and there’s so, so much that Laurel is saying in her silence, so much it leaves Frank shaking. “Strangled us. Until Hector passed out. We played Russian Roulette when he woke up. He told us the survivor would get doused in gasoline and burned alive.”

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Frank tells her when he can speak through his rage.

“I’m not,” she says flatly and all of Frank’s rage vanishes like smoke. He’s just sad, sad for her. “He was like an uncle. I think that was the worst part.”

“He was going to kill you, wasn't he?”

Laurel nods and there’s a certainty in her voice that makes him want to tell her to shut up, that he takes it back, didn't mean it when he said he wanted to know everything. “He was.”

“But you’re here,” Frank whispers, like a prayer.

“I told you, I tried to buy us some time, confuse him about things. I don't know what I was thinking. Then Hector got his hands on a letter opener, stabbed Nestor. And I got to dad’s desk, got his gun, shot him. In the stomach. And then…”

“Laurel Castillo,” a voice echoes through the waiting room, cutting through Laurel’s soft words. “We can bring you back now.”

Laurel hesitates, stands. She pauses in front of Frank, looks at him and holds out her hand. He takes it without hesitation, follows her, then the nurse, back to a bright little room.

There’s an exam table in the center, a couple more uncomfortable looking chairs. Laurel ignores the table, sits in one of the chairs as the nurse tells her a doctor will be in shortly.

“I threatened to kill him,” Laurel says as soon as the nurse closes the door, like she’s been waiting to continue now, the past pouring out of her, like now that she’s started speaking she can’t stop, won't be able to stop until it's over.

“I told his goons that I’d blow his fucking head off before they could take me, take Hector, out. Told them the game was over,” she laughs, darkly, wetly, her laugh practically a hiccuping cough. “The thing about hired help, they like your money more than they like you. And once you’re dead, there’s no damn chance of getting paid. They took Nestor to one hospital, Hector and I went to another after we cleaned the house up, scrubbed everything with bleach.”

“But Barrow didn't believe whatever lie got told,” Frank prompts, skipping ahead, seeing the threads that tie the past together, tie the present together, the things that keep the past from being dead and buried, that keep getting pulled, ragged and frayed, into the present.

Laurel nods. She’s crying silently now, fat, wet tears pouring one after the other down her cheeks. Frank wants to reach out, wipe them away, do something to try and make them stop, but he doesn't think she even realizes, doesn't think she’s really even present in her body. He thinks she’s probably thousands of miles away or a decade in the past. “Barrow put two and two together. He was investigating dad already. Pulled us straight from the hospital into a couple of interrogation rooms. Tried to get us to talk. Figured something horrible had happened to us; between my hand and Hector’s face there wasn't any other explanation. I think he figured with a little time, a little hard press, two clearly traumatized kids would crack like eggs, spill everything he’d need to take my dad down. But if I didn't talk when I thought Nestor was gonna kill me, I wasn't going to talk to any Fed, wasn't going to give up my dad.”

“But Hector wanted to?” He knows now where the strange crackling animosity that Hector seems to feel for Laurel, the dark, flashing guilt and needling jabs and stifled, white-hot anger was given life. Because, after everything that had happened to them, they didn't even have each other to rely on, were turned against each other when they were given an impossible choice. Frank thinks that probably felt like the biggest betrayal, to be alone after everything that came before.

“He did,” Laurel tells him shortly, and he can hear only weary resignation in her tone, nothing like guilt or sadness. Frank watches the drops of her tears fall, splatter against her thigh and Laurel brushes them away distractedly without looking down, without wiping her cheeks. “He was practically catatonic after everything; I think he just wanted to have someone listen to him. But I told him I’d saved his life by not talking and he owed me. Told him to keep his mouth shut, because if he didn't all that would happen would be the Feds locking all of us up. If dad even let whoever talked live long enough to go to jail. Luckily the Feds have shitty Spanish.”

“And so he didn't talk?”

“Yeah. Because he felt guilty that he’d been praying I got one between the eyes instead of him. And because well, he wasn't in much of a position to make decisions for himself. So he clammed up too,” she frowns, heavy, angry. “I’m a terrible person for doing that to him, for ignoring how much he needed to just _talk_. I should've let him talk. To me, or,” she shrugs. “Or anyone. But at the time I just thought I needed him to shut the fuck up and we’d all be fine.”

“And if you didn't talk, it would leave your dad free to take care of Nestor himself,” he says lowly. He can’t, won't, touch the rest of her words, her confession. Because Frank knows, that just like Hector needed to talk, needed to reveal his pain, Laurel wants with everything within her to never think about what was done to her, never wants to even acknowledge it happened, that she wants to pretend, even to herself, that it was all just a bad dream, something silly that can be laughed about later and not the shade that still haunts her steps, her thoughts, her everything. He knows too, the guilt she must carry towards her brother, why she treats him the way she does, steps into his place to fight his battles, allows him to ask her anything and will deny him nothing. Because she feels responsible for what he is now, feels responsible for the still weeping wounds on his body, treats him as though everything he does falls back on her. Frank wants to tell her that's not her responsibility, not her duty, but he is not stupid enough, not naïve enough to think that will have any effect on the festering guilt and grief she feels when she looks at her brother, thinks about what he could have been, what maybe he once was.

Laurel gives him a small, grateful smile, bites her lip, as though she knows the effort it takes him to focus on the facts, on the events, remove emotion from the equation. “Except Nestor vanished before he could. So dad went after everyone else.”

She takes his hand and Frank can feel the fluttering of her pulse under his fingers, quick and rapid, feel her fear in his skin.

“Six months later,” she continues with a long, long sigh. “Dad picks me up from school, takes me to a warehouse and hands me a gun. He’s rounded up the _sicarios_ , puts two in the back of their heads, tells me I’m owed their deaths. And I am. I feel good when he shoots them, it makes it a little easier to breathe, just for a moment.”

Frank can tell, just by the way Laurel talks, the way she casually describes their executions, that these were not the first dead bodies Laurel had encountered, not the first murders she’d been witness to. He wonders, though he dreads the answer, just when, who, was the first; wonders if, like Frank himself, she’d gotten sick after it was over, retching and wretched, or if she simply took it all in stride with that closed off, distant look in her eyes, hard and unflinching.

Laurel smiles then, wan and sickly. “I hadn’t felt like I’d been able to breathe since it happened. But knowing they were dead, it helped,” she’s breathing deeply now, like the long remembered weight is easing off her chest, taking long, slow breaths, though the tears are still dripping down her cheeks, leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Until it didn't.”

“And then he brings in Alain and he tells me that it's my turn. And I’m gonna do it, got the gun in my hand and all. Except where does it end? I have all these deaths at my feet already, and now I'm going to kill someone who was like a brother to me. Just because his dad decided to go against my dad,” Laurel’s hand tightens against his own and Frank sees her bite her lip, harshly enough he wonders if he will see blood.

“It just didn't make sense,” she tells him. “It didn't take back anything that happened. Killing Alain wouldn’t make me better, or fix me, all it would do would be to make me just as bad as the people who did it, who hurt me to get to _my_ dad. It wouldn't help me and it certainly wouldn't help Hector, who was busy ripping his own fingernails out in some psych ward in Tampa. And I was so tired of seeing blood every time I closed my eyes. So I told him to let Alain go, that I wasn't going to do it. That I didn't want this owed to me, I wanted him to let it go instead. And he did, and I thought that was the end of it.”

She laughs, harshly, pulls her hand from his grasp and brings her fingers to her lips, running her lips against the scars there, over and over, then stroking them over her teeth.

Frank wonders, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, just who Laurel is. How she could choose to let her anger go, after everything that had been done to her, choose to walk away and let it go, end things and not cause anymore pain. He knows he couldn't have done that, knows he would have wanted to burn the world down if anyone had hurt him, betrayed him half as bad as they did her.

But Laurel, Laurel was always smart and observant and thinking twelve steps ahead of everyone else, could see the inevitable outcomes of her choices, could see the choices others would make. And was able to put aside her emotions, the desire for revenge he knows she still carries deep in her chest, to end things, to make the violence and retribution stop with her. Frank marvels at what it must have taken to make that choice; courage or brilliance or selflessness or some combination of all three. Or, he realizes with a sinking feeling in his chest like he’s been punched, leaving his breath stolen, just the weary, heartbreaking knowledge that her father may give her a small act of revenge, may grant her a chance to feel better by causing pain in someone else, may throw the bodies of her torturers at her feet, but it won't punish the people actually responsible, won't take back what happened, won't fix her or set her right.

“Dad still needed his revenge though, got Alain locked up on some conspiracy to distribute charge. And that was ok, I could live with that. But he did it because he thought someone else would do the job of offing Nestor Serrano’s kid while he was on the inside. But then Alain got sent to seg, cause he was Nestor Serrano’s kid,” she says with a bitter smile. “And now he’s dead. Because my dad knows how to wait but not to forgive. And I’m gonna end it Frank, should've ended it ten years ago. I'm gonna do it now, fix my mistakes so there won't be anymore blood on my hands.”

“You’re gonna turn him in,” Frank breathes, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut, seeing that path laid out ahead of her, seeing how it can only end with Laurel dead too. “Jesus Laurel, no.”

“It’s the only way to make him stop,” she tells him. He can see the fear behind her eyes, fear at what her decision will lead to, but certainty too, like she believes it's the only play left available to her, the only way out of the jaws of the closing trap.

“Laurel,” he tells her, running his hand through his beard, desperate and pleading. He swallows thickly around the hard lump of fear in his throat. “Laurel, you can’t. He’s gonna kill you.”

She nods and her eyes are suddenly clear. “Maybe, but someone has to stop him.”

“So let the Feds do it,” he’s practically shouting, grasping her arms so hard she hisses. “Why’s it on you?”

“Because I _can_ ,” is her answer.

“And what about the bar, the PDs office? What about helping people, what about us, our life? Jesus, what about _you_?”

“I don't deserve any of that if I don't stop him,” her voice is steady, harsh, but she fixes him with a look so full of affection, so full of love, he’s left reeling. “He’ll kill you, Frank, you know that, if you don't follow through on his little errand, hell, he's probably gonna force you to take out Barrow. I can’t let that happen. I’ve got to stop him before he destroys everything.”

“There’s gotta be another way,” he tells her, unable to think of what that may be, but knowing there has to be. His voice is soft, pleading like a prayer. He leans forward, rests his forehead against hers. Her eyes, so close to his they're all he can see, slip closed. “There’s gotta be.”


	26. Chapter 26

The door swings open then, an elderly doctor in a white coat slipping inside, a nurse holding a number of items following behind him. He and Laurel both pull back, retreat to their corners. Frank wants to laugh, how they both suddenly pretend they’re strangers, now, after that, as though there's some kind of latent suspicion in both of them that the truth will be seen on their faces, in their eyes, can be read like bright flashing neon signs for miles.

“So, Christmas Eve stitches, huh?” the doctor asks brusquely, taking a seat on a little rolling stool and sliding in front of Laurel. He takes her hand, turns it over appraisingly and then unwraps the sodden towels. “You don't seem too drunk, just bad luck then?”

Laurel nods. “Just bad luck.”

He clicks his tongue, slides a little steel tray over and rests Laurel’s wrist against it. “Well, I’ll try not to add to it. Let's see the damage.”

He takes the last of the towel from around her hand, ignoring Laurel’s hisses as the sticky, dried bits of blood are pulled away from the raw edges of her skin. As the towel falls away he hands it back to the nurse, who bags it, probably to be burned.

The cut on her palm is still ragged, pink and raw, still weeping blood, dripping from her body in slow, bubbling spurts that sync to the beats of her heart.

“You sure did a number here, kid,” the doctor tells her, ripping open a package of alcohol wipes then spraying Laurel’s hand with what looks like a hamster bottle and wiping the dried blood away.

Laurel shrugs.

The doctor glances at Frank, flicks his eyes over briefly before returning to cleaning Laurel’s hand. Frank frowns, hating that something in his face translates to brutish, that this man can see the violence he tries to keep at bay, but lurks under the surface of his skin like a bruise, hates that it immediately casts suspicion on him, makes this man think he could ever hurt Laurel. “He have anything to do with it?”

Laurel laughs so hard she jerks her hand from the doctor’s grasp. “Him?” she asks incredulously, nudging her chin towards Frank. “Definitely not.”

The doctor nods, gives her a tired half-smile. “I’m gonna believe you, because it's Christmas Eve. But I’m gonna be pissed if I see you back in here with a busted lip and a shiner.”

Laurel laughs again, rolls her eyes. “You’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

“Fantastic,” he says, sounding like he still doesn't quite believe her. He wipes her palm quickly with the alcohol and gets his needle and thread together, draping a cloth over her hand so that only the center of her palm peeks through. “You remember when your last tetanus shot was?”

She shrugs. “Probably a decade ago.”

“Well,” he tells her. “You’re getting one of those tonight too.”

He goes to begin stitching, pauses and looks at her appraisingly. “You want to get numbed up?”

She shakes her head.

He nods, goes back to his work.

Laurel has no perceptible reaction until he sticks a little hooked needle through the skin of her palm, tugging the edges of broken skin closest to her pinky together. She frowns but doesn't flinch, doesn't make a noise. Frank thinks this is probably nowhere close to the worst pain she’s felt, wishes that weren’t true, wishes that just she’d taken the numbing shot. The doctor makes quick little stitches through her skin, pulling the edges together. Frank counts them as he goes; one, two, three…thirteen, fourteen, until the wound is closed.

“Flex you fingers,” the doctor tells her when he’s done.

Laurel makes a fist, tries not to grimace.

He turns her hand over, runs his fingers over the back of her hand, then her palm, probing for something. “I think you should be good as new in a month or two,” he pauses, looks at her expectantly. “You gonna tell me who you went after to get these?”

“I didn't go after anyone,” she tells him shortly, pulling her hand away.

He shrugs, gives her a placating smile. “I’m not a cop, kid, I don't really care who you went after, who went after you.” He takes back her hand, placing it again on the metal table. “But I care about getting this bandaged up.”

She scoffs lightly. “You cared if he went after me,” she says, nodding towards Frank.

“I did,” he agrees, glancing at Frank in what he thinks might be an apology. “Cause I don't want you going home with him if you’re just gonna wind up back in my ER.”

“I can’t promise you that,” Laurel says, and something like a grin sneaks onto her face. “But if I do, it won't be cause of him.”

The doctor frowns, grimaces, looks to Frank. “You keep her out of more trouble,” he tells Frank, wagging a wrinkled finger at him.

“I can't keep her from a damn thing,” Frank tells him, glancing at her, giving Laurel a little smirk out of the corner of his mouth, though his stomach drops at the truth of it, of what it means now. “Even if I wanted to.”

The doctor gives him an appraising look. “Yeah, you could,” he tells Frank casually. “But it's probably a good thing you don't.”

He wraps Laurel’s hand in a layer of gauze, secures it with tape. “Change this twice a day if you can,” he tells her. “And come back in ten days to remove the stitches.”

Laurel frowns. “I live in Pennsylvania.”

He shrugs. “Then go into an ER there. Let some Yankee doctor marvel at my handiwork.”

Laurel laughs. “I’ll be sure to praise your steady hands and even stitching.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says, snapping off his gloves and throwing them away. “The nurse can take care of your tetanus shot and then you can be on your merry way.”

“Thanks,” Laurel tells him sincerely.

He fixes her with an inscrutable look before he heads out the door. “Whatever happened tonight, kid, I hope tomorrow is better.”

She flashes him a grin, only half filled with irony. “Probably can't be worse.”

He chuckles and departs. The nurse quickly jabs a needle into Laurel’s upper arm then invites them to leave.

* * *

 

It's after 2:00 by the time they make it back to the house. Hector, half asleep, slumps from the car and stumbles off towards the house and his bed.

“Worst Christmas ever,” he tells her as he goes. “Fuck dad and Douglas Barrow and Santa Claus. And fuck Nestor Serrano especially.”

Laurel laughs sharply. “Sleep it off Hec.”

He turns as he drags himself away from the car, pauses and looks back at his sister, peering at her through the darkness. “I’m sorry, L. I really am. So fucking sorry,” he sounds on the verge of tears, voice cracking.

“Hec,” she tells him. “It's ok, _I’m_ ok.”

“But Jesus, I had no idea it was you. I just wanted to fucking _kill_ whoever it was.”

“I know,” she says softly, soothingly, nodding at him in the darkness, her eyes fixed on his face. “I know. You didn't mean it. You didn't know what you were doing. I know, Hec, it's ok. I promise”

“I’m still sorry, you gotta believe me.”

“I do,” she insists, voice still soft, still warm and smooth and comforting, the corners of her mouth trying, weakly, to pull into a smile. “I believe you. We’ll talk tomorrow if you want, ok?”

“I don't,” he tells her, catch low in his throat. “I can't. But I didn't mean what I did, I didn't, L.”

“I know you didn't,” she tells him again firmly. Frank watches her slide her bandaged hand down by her hip, watches the way she hides it behind her body, shielding it from Hector’s sight. He should expect this kind of gesture, really he should, but it still takes him by surprise, that Laurel will protect her brother even from the reminder of what he did, of the brutality and violence he brought against her. She has never been one to shy away from horrible things, from the darkness, but here, with Hector, she flinches away from the truth, for him. “It’s ok, Hec, I promise. You’re my brother and I love you, no matter what.”

Hector slinks away, a sound like a sob echoing through the night.

Laurel kills the engine but makes no move to leave the car.

“So,” Frank says cautiously. “We could grab our stuff, be at the airport in time to catch an early morning flight home.”

She nods carefully, bites her lip. “We could.”

“But we're not,” he says, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“I’m going to give him Christmas,” she says. “And then I’ll call Barrow.”

“And hope that your dad doesn't get wind of it, that Barrow doesn’t blow it somehow, that he doesn't hire the Floridian Annalise and beat the charges? That’s your plan?”

She gives a little shrug, shifting in her seat, turning her body towards him and resting her cheek against the headrest, looking at him somberly. “Never said it was a good plan.”

“Laurel,” he tells her seriously, meeting her eyes, taking her hand across the expanse of the car. “If you’re gonna do this, you gotta have a better plan, gotta have one that _works_. You can’t risk everything without some guarantee of success."

She says nothing, continues to stare at him solemnly.

“And how long’s Barrow been going after your dad? And he hasn't stopped him yet?”

“Because no one talks,” she tells him fiercely, voice high and tight. “I’m gonna talk.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, you said so yourself,” he insists, wishing he could feel something like anger at her, at her stubbornness and naïveté and her impossibly damning insistence on assuming responsibility for things she should not feel responsible for, should really just let go. But instead he just loves her, loves all her stupid, foolish decisions, her belief that she must set the world right, can’t let any injustice stand or it will be as if it were hers. He loves how certain she is, how desperately she tries to do right, even when it's impossible, even when she does terrible things, Laurel still tries to do right, still tries to make things better with the hand she’s been dealt. “Best case scenario, you do five as an accessory.”

“I’ll make a deal,” she scoffs. “For what I’ll give them, they’ll give me what I want.”

“You’ll still serve time,” he tells her, hoping she’ll listen to him, doubting she will. He knows from making deals with the Feds, he thinks Laurel does too; she just doesn't care, barreling on ahead with blind certainty towards the cliff. “They won't let you off completely. You’ll do your time in solitary and when you come out you’ll be lucky if you can tie your shoes.”

“Good thing I like slippers,” she says, giving him a tired, sad smile that tries just too hard to be cocky.

“Laurel,” he tells her, voice going desperate. “I’ll back whatever your play is, but if you’re gonna do this, you gotta be smart. If you really mean this, if you really want to see him locked up and all this put to bed, you gotta know you can pull it off. Otherwise, it’s all just a fucking waste.”

She nods slowly, seriously. “I know. But I’m never going to get a better plan. I’ve been trying for ten years to get a better plan.”

“Then you and me, we’ll think of one together,” he insists. “We’ll bring in Hector if we have to. We’ll talk to your Fed, see what he can offer, and you won't tell him shit until he proves he can follow through, get a conviction and protect you.”

She nods again and Frank thinks she might just agree. “I’ll give you Christmas too.”

He flashes her a tight smile. “Good thing I think on my feet.”

She grins back. “We’ll sort it out. One way or another.”

“But not tonight,” he adds, dropping her hand, opening the door. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agrees.

They leave the car, enter the house and drag themselves up to the guest room. Laurel slips out of her dress, leaves it pooled on the floor, then her bra, stumbles into the bathroom. When she emerges her face is scrubbed and raw and Frank can’t help but think how young and terrified she looks; thinks she looks like she’s about sixteen again. She crawls into bed without a word, sprawling across the bed, arms outstretched, hair fanning out everywhere, wild and mussed.

Frank shucks his jacket, his tie, waistcoat and shirt, thinks about brushing his teeth and decides against it. He sits heavy on the side of the bed, kicks off his shoes.

Laurel must feel the dip in the bed as he sits; she turns her body and curls onto her side, brings her knees up to her chest, left arm wrapping tight around her body, her injured right hand curled against her chest, held close to her heart, shielded by the rest of her body. He doesn't want to think about how much pain she must be in, can see the hurt in every line of her body, in the tension in her limbs, in her slow, shallow breaths. Her eyes, blue and clear and exhausted, watch him. Frank leaves his pants by the foot of the bed, slides in next to Laurel. He thinks she’s going to ignore him, continue to curl up into herself and sleep off the lingering pain and rage. Instead she shifts, draws her body to his, tucks her head into the crook of his arm. Frank thinks this means she knows she won't get any sleep tonight.

He takes her injured hand in both of his, cradling it like a wounded animal, places a kiss against her bandaged palm. They both stare at it a long moment, before she draws back, pulls her hand tight to her chest. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, brings her body even closer to his, lets her rest her head against his chest, over his heart.

“I love you,” she tells him, voice hushed. “No matter what happens. And I’ll love you even after five years in seg, after I forget how to tie my shoes or eat without drooling, I’m still gonna love you.”

He chuckles. “Good. Cause I’m gonna love you even if I have to tie your shoes and wipe up your drool.”

She laughs into his chest. “I’ll wear a bib if you like.”

“It’s not gonna come to that,” Frank tells her, brushing his lips against her hair. “I won't let it come to that. I’ll break you out if I have to. We’ll go to Switzerland, raft to Cuba, something.”

Laurel hums softly. “I really think you need to read up on extradition laws.”

“That’s your job,” he says. “I’ll break you out if you figure out how we stay out.”


	27. Chapter 27

The clock reads 4:33. Frank blinks awake, not entirely sure he was even asleep to begin with, but realizing that somehow the clock has ticked ahead more than an hour and a half. He feels drugged, exhausted, his entire body aching. He's not sure he can move his limbs, it feels like hot metal spikes have been shot through his shoulders, elbows, knees, like weights have been draped over his arms, legs, chest, pinning him to the bed. A sick feeling settles in the pit of his stomach as consciousness dawns on him; where he is, the events of the previous evening, Laurel’s doomed plan.

He rubs a hand against his face, through his beard. He wants to go back to Philly, he wants to go back in time.

He shifts his attention to Laurel, judging by the weight of her limbs, the cadence of her breathing whether she’s asleep.

She’s no longer curled tight against him, having separated either of her own volition or due to Frank’s unconscious movements. She’s lying on her back, her bandaged right hand laying across her chest, tucked near her collarbone, and Frank shifts enough to see that her eyes are open, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

The dim moonlight filtering in from the curtains sets her body glowing blue and grey. Her face is expressionless, and she looks so much like a corpse Frank feels he must speak, break the spell and confirm she’s alive, confirm she’s ok.

“Laurel?”

She turns her head, fixes her eyes on him. She doesn't blink, barely even breathes and Frank isn't completely certain she even hears him.

“You sleep at all?” he asks softly, can’t bring himself to shatter the illusion that they will be going back to sleep, have a normal night, by speaking above a whisper. He reaches over, brushes her hair back from her face, breathes a sigh of relief when she doesn't flinch at his proximity, at the feeling of his skin against hers.

“No,” her voice is barely audible, hoarse and low.

“You gonna be able to?”

“No.”

“It hurt bad?” he tries.

She shakes her head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “No.”

He fixes her with a lopsided smirk. “Is two plus two four?”

Even in the dark he can see her eyes roll, see the little grin that cracks her face. “Nice one Frank.”

“You gotta try to sleep,” he tells her stupidly, as if it were that easy. “We’re not gonna figure anything out if you’re exhausted.”

She nods, but says nothing else.

“Are you thinking about it?”

“About what?” she asks, a cautious note sounding in her voice.

“What your dad did.”

Her eyes drill into him. “No. About Alain,” she still sounds cautious, like she doesn't quite trust Frank to understand. He’s honestly not sure he can, not sure he can hope to begin to approach what Laurel must be feeling about the long delayed death of Alain Serrano. “He does ten years, gets out, and doesn't last the year. What he must've gone through on the inside. How awful it must've been at the end to know that after all that, he was back where he started, except it was worse. Cause if I’d killed him, I’d’ve made it quick.”

“Do you regret not killing him?” Frank asks.

She doesn't answer, Frank isn't sure if she can, if there can even be an answer to a question like that. She just continues to stare at him with her wide, sad eyes.

“You did what you thought was best,” he tells her, hoping that's some comfort. “You thought you were saving him.”

“But I didn't.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn't. But you couldn't’ve known it would end this way.”

“I know _him_ though; my dad,” she says vaguely. “Maybe I should’ve.”

“Not everything’s your fault,” he tells her, instantly feeling cruel. Frank thinks maybe he is still half-asleep, not entirely thinking things through, because this is not a path he feels he should be heading down, not a door he wants to be opening; the responsibility Laurel feels for the rest of the world, to set things right, even when she shouldn't.

“When I could do something and choose not to, yeah, it's my fault.”

“Look,” he says sitting up in bed, resting his back against the headboard, the comforter slipping down to his waist as he draws his knees up to his chest. “I’ve done plenty of shitty things, you know that, things I feel plenty responsible for.”

Laurel nods, once. They won't speak on those things anymore.

“But I don't go and make myself responsible for more than that, babe,” he tries to keep his voice soft, tries not to spook her.

She’s still lying on her back on the bed, now not even looking at him. Frank has the sudden, flashing insight that they’re thousands of miles away from each other, shouting across the mountains, hoping to hear the echoes of each other's voices. They’re just shouting into nothing. “If you tell me to boost a guy’s car, make it vanish, I’m not gonna feel responsible for anything more than that. Hell, the fuzz won’t even charge me for much more than grand theft and accessory after.”

He watches her blink rapidly, watches her frown. Her bandaged hand is still curled against her chest, but Frank watches her fingers drum, pointer to pinky, pinky to pointer, against her collarbone in some strange halting rhythm.

“Don't make yourself more responsible than the law does, babe.”

“Sometimes the law is wrong,” Laurel says fiercely, vehemently, the first time Frank has heard a shred of emotion in her voice since he woke.

He nods. “Sometimes it is. But it's still the law, you know that.”

“Then it should punish him, for all the things he’s done,” her voice is still tight and raw with feeling.

“Yeah, it should. But it’s not on you to do that, and it's not on you to think you’re responsible for what he does. You’re the accessory after, you’re not the murderer.”

“Not this time,” she says darkly. Wherever this conversation is going, it seems to have roused Laurel, because she joins him, sitting back against the headboard, except she doesn't touch him, doesn't even look at him. The few inches between their bodies might as well be miles, years, might as well be separated by steel and glass and brick. “And when my dad killed those _sicarios?_ The law says I’m responsible for them too.”

“Not if you just stood there, not if you just watched.”

“That's all it takes Frank, you know that. I’d serve a lot of time if anyone cared. For that, for the drugs, for taking a couple of late night phone calls about a cigarette run from Havana. Jesus, just for protecting him at all,” her arms are crossed over her chest, and out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees her doing that thing where her shoulders hunch, and she goes small, tries to make herself invisible. “But that means I know things, that means I have things to trade,” she laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. 

“Look,” he says, chancing a glance over at her face, closed and shuttered. “I’m not entirely unfamiliar with frame jobs. Why don't you just plant something on him, call in a tip?”

Laurel gives him a look like he’s the stupidest man she’s ever met, derisive and withering, her eyes piercing through him. “Because he’s not some two bit idiot Frank. Because he didn't get where he is by being an easy mark. You can't just slip a kilo of coke into his trunk and walk away.”

“Then what’ll it take?” he asks, because honestly, that doesn't sound like a terrible plan; it’s worked for him more times than he can count.

“Something that’ll stick, something he can’t slip out of. Not by bribing the cops, not by knowing how to beat a search, not by killing whoever comes after him. Not by hiring an Annalise.”

He scoffs, he can’t help it. They’re fucked if Laurel thinks she needs a foolproof plan; there are no foolproof plans. If she thinks nothing less than her turning on him will be enough, and even then it probably won't be, there’s no way to get out of this alive. She might as well just off herself now. “So you need the fuzz to find your dad standing over the body, gun in hand, covered in blood and holding a written confession. Good damn luck, babe.”

“I know,” she doesn't sound upset, frustrated. She just sounds defeated, helpless, small. She sounds like she’s been running for half her life, sounds like she can't run a single step further, like her knees have turned to jelly and the breath of her pursuers are coming hot and fast on her neck and she knows the only option left to her is to turn and stand and fight.

“Then what are we gonna do?”

“I honestly have no idea.” And if Laurel were any other person, Frank doesn't think he’d see the tired smile that skitters onto her face, leaving her wide eyed and looking half shocked.

“You think he lied on his taxes?” Frank asks. “That’s how they got Capone.”

Her smile grows a little wider, shakes her head. “He doesn't lie on his taxes. And Paola’s got a green card.”

Frank laughs, shaking his head. “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

Laurel shrugs. “Maybe insider trading?”

“Bootlegging?”

The laugh that bursts out of her is sharp and biting. “Might as well throw that in. Technically his biggest problem is racketeering.”

“Sounds like his biggest problem is actually murder,” Frank says pointedly, because forgetting what Jorge Castillo is will probably be what gets them killed. Yeah, he’s Laurel’s dad, but he’s also a man that runs a multi-million, if not billion, dollar cartel arm, kills hitmen as a matter of course and who will wait patiently for ten long years for his revenge, won't take his eyes from the violent end he has planned, won't soften his heart as the years pass. No, that is probably the most dangerous thing about Laurel’s dad, that he’s not just violent, vicious; he’s smart and patient and calculating, doesn't let emotions rule his decisions when cold rationality will keep him safe, keep him in power and keep his enemies, without fail, dead or powerless.

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice small, almost timid, sighs heavily. “That too. He’s was horrible person to have as a father.”

“Yeah?” he echoes, trying not to push too hard, trying to let her go at her own pace now that he’s realized she isn't hiding from him anymore, isn't trying to shield him from the truth of her family, of her past.

She nods. “He loves us, I know that. I do,” she says, insistent, like she’s trying to convince herself. She’s told him that enough times now that Frank thinks she doesn't really believe it, but repeats it because she wants so desperately for it to be true. But she’s never been one to shy away from the hard realities, so maybe, he decides, she really does think Jorge loves his children in his own twisted way. It doesn't look a damn thing like love to him, but Frank wasn't raised by Jorge Castillo, wasn’t raised in this fucking house of mirrors where everything is twisted and distorted and turned sour, rotten. 

“But he turned us into monsters,” she continues. “He started having me run drugs for him when I was nine, all over Miami at first, cause who was gonna suspect that my little purple backpack was filled with coke and not books,” and now Laurel’s hugging her elbows, drawing her knees up to her chest, going small and stiff, like she’s trying to hold herself together, hold herself unmoving until the memory passes. Even her breath seems stuttered, like she’s trying to breathe slow and even, but it's coming out rasping and shaky with fear.

“By thirteen,” she whispers after a long moment staring at nothing, teeth driving into the soft flesh of her lower lip. “I was picking up shipments from the Keys, taking them as far as Orlando. I didn't even realize what I was doing at first, thought it was some kind of game. A scavenger hunt or something; I gave myself points if I was early to a drop off, or when I saw certain things along the route, came home and told my dad about the people I saw on the bus, thought he actually cared. Adrian’s first murder was at fifteen; some tweaker who’d tried to mug one of my dad’s boys for an extra couple of grams. I found an ear in his desk drawer once, looking for something, I don't even remember what. An ear, wrapped up in a couple of tissues. Smartest thing Nessa ever did was getting knocked up, getting herself out for good.”

Frank doesn't speak until he’s able to without his voice shaking, without letting the black fury he feels deep in his gut bleed into his words. They were goddamn children is all he can think, not pawns, not employees, but Jorge’s fucking children. He should have protected them from these things, from drugs and murder and violence, from the terrible things he did, should have shielded them from the horrors of the world, not introduced them to it, walked them into the lion’s den with a smile and a pat on the head. He tries to speak, words catching in his throat.

“I don't know how he could do it,” she continues haltingly, glassy eyes swinging away from Frank and he thinks she’s ashamed, can’t meet his eyes. He wants to tell her it's not her fault, wants to tell her he doesn't care, that she should never be ashamed, not with him because he knows, deep in his gut, that it's not her fault. “How he could look at us and see murderers when he imagined our futures. What kind of person could want that for us?”

“I dunno Laurel,” he says, voice ragged, hand slipping over her knee. He feels her tense at his touch, flinch before she forces her body to relax, accept his touch. “But you’re not monsters. You all did the best you could. You chose not to be monsters even though it would’ve been easy, you just wanted to do what your dad asked, make him proud.”

“I still do maybe,” she confesses, hands fisting together, frowning deeply, her jaw stiff. “Still want him to be proud of what I do. But I know that's impossible.”

“I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself. You don't need him.”

“No,” she agrees slowly. “I don't think I do. Not anymore. I think I can finally see him for who he really is.” Her bandaged hand goes to his upper arm, squeezing his bicep slightly as Laurel tucks her head against his shoulder. He thinks that she lets herself touch him because it is finally safe, she knows he will not change her mind tonight, not put at risk the terrible decision she has made by trying to reason with her further. 

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, after what seems like minutes, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “For getting so upset when you hit Hector. You didn't know.”

He shrugs, because he wants to tell her it's ok, but he doesn't think he can. He’s still fucking furious at Hector for what he did, for losing himself like that, for hurting her. And if he’s really being honest with himself, he’s furious at Laurel. For getting upset when Frank was just stepping in and trying to protect her, angry at her for reacting the way she did; giving him orders and making no effort to understand _why_ he’d maybe want to protect her, keep her safe.

He’s mad too, that she explained nothing to him, just assumed he’d know not to intervene in the strange dynamics between her and her brother. And he’s mad because there’s not a damn thing he can say about it, not now, not when Laurel’s been attacked on all sides tonight, not when she’s been left raw and bleeding and broken; he can’t land another blow when he suspects it will be all it takes to knock her out, put her down for the count. And he’s mad at himself for being so fucking selfish that he’s upset at all, that there’s an edge of anger inside him that’s directed at her, when he should just be trying to protect and comfort her. He can tamp it down, mostly, but it's still there, a hard kernel of something deep in his chest, his breath tripping over it when he least suspects it. And that makes him angriest of all, because it means he’s weak and selfish and utterly useless.

“I thought about it too, when you were sleeping; what I would've done if someone’d tried to hurt you like that,” she sighs, takes his hand, hesitantly, like she's unsure that he’ll even allow it, even wants her to touch him. He squeezes her fingers, watches the tiny smile that sets her eyes alight. “I’d’ve wanted to kill anyone too. And I’m sorry for not thinking about you, I didn't have your back when I needed to.”

He tries to let it go, he does, but Frank isn't sure he can. He just shrugs again, still angry, but trying not to let her see. He doesn't tell her it's fine, because it's not, but he gets it now, at least. “You gotta tell me these things, babe,” he says, because he thinks that might be all he can say.

“Hey,” she says, voice going sharp, turning so that he has to meet her eyes. “You gotta talk to me too. If you're upset, you have to tell me.”

He sighs. “I’m not…”

“Yeah, you are,” she tells him, voice still sharp, though Frank can detect an undercurrent of something pleading, something fearful. “Look, tonight was awful; this whole trip has been awful. But it's gonna be worse if you and me can’t be a team. I’m sorry I dropped the ball, I’m sorry I went solo. Please don't do it too.”

“I’m pissed,” he admits. “And I’m pissed that I’m pissed, because you don't need me putting that on you too. You got enough shit from enough people to worry about.”

“I know you're mad. And I’m sorry,” her voice is stuttering, halting, as though she's searching, slowly, deliberately for words that escape her grasp, slide through her fingers and scatter like grains of sand against the floor. “I think I was back there, or, or something. All I knew was that I had to protect him. I don't know if I realized it was you. I just had to keep him safe again.”

“You went back to…to all that?”?” he asks roughly, voice thick and ragged. God, Frank thinks, he wishes he didn't have to ask these questions, wishes he didn't have to dredge it all up again, wishes he could leave the dead alone. But the past is back, it's not dead, just wounded and dazed, and Frank ignoring things will not fix anything, will not make anything better, will not take away reality and make things go back to twelve hours ago. So he barrels on, because he and Laurel need to get on the same page, need to know they can trust, rely on each other through whatever comes next.

She nods, meets his eyes, gaze unguarded and raw. Frank sees the start of tears beginning to form in her eyes, brushes his thumb softly against her cheek. “I think. I just…went away? All I could think about was how I needed to help him. I’m sorry. I should’ve done things differently. I should've been looking out for both of you.”

“That’s all I was trying to do babe,” he tells her, hand cupping her cheek. “I just needed to protect you.

“I just, I always think you can protect yourself,” Laurel says, still halting. “Can handle everything. But that's not true. Or even if it is, sometimes I need to look out for you too.”

“It’s ok,” he assures her, because he can’t be upset at her, not when she’s basically admitting to PTSD or something like it. He wasn't present in his own body either; he’s not sure anyone was. He thinks that everyone’s to blame and no one is. He thinks the entire weekend has been, save maybe getting engaged, one giant unmitigated disaster, and shows no signs of improving. “Really. Just, you gotta talk to me. When you can, ok? We’re a team and you can’t keep me in the dark.”

She nods. “I will. Not tonight, but I will. Promise. And I shouldn’t’ve told you to get out of the car. That was fucked up. I can’t run away from you or go rogue every time something shitty happens. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he tells her. “But we’ll both do better next time.”

“I’m glad there’ll be a next time,” she says softly, settling her hand against Frank's thigh, tracing her thumb over the lines of his muscles. He catches her hand, threads their fingers together.

“Laurel,” he says, matching her soft tone but making sure his voice is firm, insistent. “I’m not walking away, not ever. Not even when it gets rough, ok?”

“Not even when I try to kick you out of the car?”

He shakes his head, grins slyly against his better judgement. But then Laurel grins too, just a hint of one slipping onto her face. “Not even then,” he tells her. “You know I wasn't gonna go anywhere, right?”

He feels her shrug against his chest. “Sometimes I don't know,” she admits. “Or sometimes I doubt myself; doubt what I know.”

“Don't doubt that, not ever,” he says roughly, lips against her hair. “I love you no matter what and nothing’s gonna change that. Not even if you tried to make me stop. It’s you and me, always.”

They’re silent for a long time, long enough that Frank feels his eyes sliding closed as he focuses on Laurel’s breathing, on the familiar weight of her body against his. He tries watching her, but she's still and unmoving for long minutes. Finally, she yawns, wide and slow, her eyes drifting closed, just for a moment, but when they open they're clouded, her eyelids heavy.  
“I love you, you do know that right?” he asks, voice gravelly, honestly only half awake. But something in him makes him ask, check, wanting to be sure there’s no doubt in her mind, not a lingering fear that when things get tough and ugly and downright painful he’s gonna cut and run and abandon her because it's too much work and he doesn't love her enough.

“Uh huh. Love you too,” she says, consonants going soft and he thinks she’s drifting off. He hopes she is, they’re not going to get anywhere tonight, Frank knows, and after the day they’ve had, he thinks she ought to sleep for weeks. He can’t believe that maybe fourteen, sixteen hours ago she was asking him to marry her, he feels like maybe it happened to a different person, happened a million years ago, even though he still has a soft folded paper ring hugging his finger. His eyes drift to the ring, turns it round and round across his finger with his right hand, letting it scrape over his knuckle. Laurel’s eyes follow Frank's, watch his hands. She reaches out, stops his nervous gesture, lets their joined hands settle heavy on his thigh.

But then her breathing goes slow, deep, even, and he thinks she’s finally found sleep, somewhere.

Frank shuts his eyes too, focuses on the cadence of Laurel’s breathing, tries to match his breaths to hers. He doesn't know if he will sleep, and he knows no answer to their problems will come to him tonight, but he hopes the answer will be out there, elusive, waiting for another time. But he is patient and he will wait too, will work the problem over in his mind until the answer emerges, clear and glittering and certain.


	28. Chapter 28

Frank jerks awake with a gasp. He’s sitting up, one hand on the bed in a strange bedroom, and the inky blue grey light of the hour before dawn is drifting into the room, bathing everything in unearthly light. His heart is pounding, the last lingering shadows of some strange and terrible dream drifting from his mind like early morning fog. He looks over to the space next to him. Laurel is curled on her side, facing away from him, her hair spilling over her shoulders. As he settles his breathing she rolls over and faces him, stares at him with her wide blue eyes.

“Morning,” she says, no trace of sleep in her voice.

“Mornin,” he mumbles, trying to figure out where they are, what is going on, why he wakes with a feeling of rising panic in his chest. They’re in Laurel’s parents’ house, it's Christmas morning; that much he knows.

“Bad dream?” she says, not really phrasing it as a question to Frank’s mind.

“Yeah,” he gasps out, willing his heart rate to still.

She reaches over, smooths a hand against his arm until she can feel his muscles relax again, ease into her touch.

“Go back to sleep, if you can,” she tells him, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “It's not even 8:00.”

He nods, not really comprehending. He’s staring at the too-white gauze wrapped around her hand. Stitches, he thinks, fourteen of them, straight and neat and black like railroad tracks, running along her palm. He sees the jagged, shattered bottle swinging towards Laurel, sees the bright, blooming blood, feels nausea rising in his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, doubling over, head between his legs as he tries not to heave.

“Hey, hey. You’re ok,” he hears her whispered words distantly, echoing, feels Laurel’s hand slide along his back, slowly, up between his shoulder blades and down to the center of his back, then up again. It’s her left hand, thank fuck, Frank thinks, bile rising in his throat again. He feels the ridges of her scars trace along his spine, tries to focus on that feeling, tries to ignore everything else.

She repeats it, ‘you’re ok’ again and again until he begins to believe it, allows himself to believe that maybe, possibly, it really might be, eventually.

“Are you ok?” he asks when he can breathe again, when he doesn't feel like opening his mouth will lead to something terrible.

Laurel smiles softly at him, open and unguarded. “Me?” she asks, something surprised coloring her words. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Even after,” he drifts off, gestures vaguely. “Even after all that?”

She nods. “Even after all that. I know what I need to do. And I’ll do it. After Christmas. Merry Christmas by the way.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nods.

They’re silent, and after a moment Laurel places a kiss against his shoulder blade, her thumb smoothing over the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, lips ghosting against his skin. “I’m sorry last night shook you up like that.”

“You think Hector will be able to keep his mouth shut about things?” Frank asks her, because that, honestly, is a big fucking concern. Hector clearly doesn't know when to keep things close to the vest, what information is too important to share to score a few meaningless points, and he’s too volatile for Laurel to think that bringing him into the loop won't spell disaster.

“I do,” Laurel says shortly, eyebrows furrowing, like she can’t quite grasp Frank’s worry.

Frank must give her a look she interprets as skeptical because she speaks again. “Trust me, Hector’s not perfect, but he knows to follow my lead.”

“Isn’t that what started all this?” Frank asks, thinking that it must be on Hector’s mind, that it must be getting turned over and over in his brain that following Laurel’s lead is what lead them here, to this new, impossible problem. But, Frank realizes, his waking brain only belatedly catching up to his mouth, following Laurel’s lead is also why the two of them are alive and not ten years dead in some shallow grave off the interstate. So, he thinks, much as Hector may resent what comes after, he can’t question his sister, can’t doubt her methods, because no matter what happens, what disasters fall like dominos behind her, she kept the two of them alive and any other outcome, by necessity, well that’s just fucking worse.

Laurel gives him a look, angry and hurt. She takes her hand from his skin, retreats back into herself, going small. “What started all this is we had two options; talk and die quick or shut up and maybe figure out a way to avoid eating lead.”

“Hey,” he says quickly, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean that.”

She shrugs, scoffs. “It doesn't matter. Hector will listen to me. He may hate me, but he’ll listen.”

“Something happened then,” Frank says then, the obvious finally clicking into place. “Something that makes him listen to you, even when he doesn't want to. Something that makes him feel like he owes you, even when he doesn't want to. And makes you forgive him even when he doesn't deserve it, even when he fucking tries to kill you.”

She nods, silent, and time stretches out infinitely. Laurel is still curled in on herself, shoulders hunched and arms tucked tight into her body. She’s kneeling on the bed, looks down at the sheets before she sighs, deeply and glances up, meets his gaze, hard and steady. “It was an eight round revolver; fucking stupid I know. There were two chambers left,” she gives a little shrug, rolls her neck like she’s trying to slough off the memory, trying not to let it cling to her. “Knew the odds at that point. Hector did too, he must've. He had the letter opener in his hand, could've used it, but he waited. It was my turn, but he was scared. Scared that he’d try something and fail and get his head blown off for it.”

“He waited?” Frank repeats, stupidly, lamely. Fuck him, Frank thinks, fuck him if that’s true, knowing it is. He should do a lot more than just listen when Laurel says ‘jump,’ should be falling at her fucking feet, begging her forgiveness, doing a whole goddamn lot more than asking her to take his beatings from their father for him, should be doing the fucking opposite every goddamn day of his life. And even if Hector did all that, Frank’s not entirely sure it would be enough to make up for hesitating and nearly costing Laurel her life, making her go through the terror of knowing what’s coming, knowing she had a fifty-fifty chance of it being her bullet, hearing the click of the trigger, the chamber spin forward, wondering if it’d be the last sounds she heard.  And knowing that her brother had an opportunity to save her and chose against it, knowing he chose to let her feel that fear, chose to take the risk that it’d be a bullet meant for Laurel. Fuck him, and fuck Laurel for not hating him back, for not hoping every day for his death, fuck her for knowing that it's not the shittiest thing he could’ve done, not the shittiest thing that's been done to her, knowing that and taking it in stride. And fuck Hector for doing it to her again, for putting himself ahead of her, for putting his fear and his anger ahead of his sister, for the fourteen stitches stamped against her palm, that could just have easily been across her throat, across her cheek. And how he thinks even then Hector would still be asking for forgiveness and Laurel would still be offering it to him.

Laurel nods, blank faced. When she speaks again her voice is flat, strange and monotone. “And when it clicked empty, everything went to shit, because everyone knew who’s bullet it was. I was screaming, Hector was screaming and when I finally distracted Nestor enough to get him to fucking look at me and consider maybe shooting me instead, he got stabbed in the thigh. And then I shot him.”

“And you both made it out.”

“We did, but I don't think Hector can forgive himself for waiting; hates knowing that he did, that he balked, hates wondering if I know. He hates me because every time he sees me he remembers how scared he was,” she says with a scoff that borders on a sob. “And part of that self-loathing is listening to me even when he doesn't want to.”

“Why don't you tell him? That you know, that you don't care?”

“Who says I don't?” Laurel asks, a flash of anger slipping into her voice, more a challenge than anything.

“You don't,” Frank says, certain. “Because he’s part of the reason you got out. Even if he waited, even if he was selfish and cowardly, he got the letter opener, gave you the opportunity to get free, get out. You can't hate him for that.”

“I could,” Laurel insists, but it rings hollow and flat to Frank’s ears.

“Yeah, you could,” he agrees. “But you don't. You’re pragmatic, and you know people are assholes. But he gave you the result you needed.”

She nods, holds his eyes, doesn't flinch away from the hard truth. “He did. And he gave me the result I needed when the cops got involved. I wish he’d just forgive himself, quit punishing himself so I can quit saving him, over and over, repay him somehow for the one moment of selfishness and fear that wound up saving me."

He gives her a tight smile. “That’s what you do babe,” he tells her. “You save people, when they can’t save themselves. It’s what you’ve been doing since I met you, it’s why you’re gonna be an amazing PD, it’s why it’s so hard to walk away from your family.”

Laurel hums, changes the subject, because he thinks maybe he’s struck too close to home. She shifts her body closer to him, relaxing against the headboard. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I dunno,” he answers honestly. “Probably being chased. That tends to be my go-to.”

She laughs quickly. “That's such a guy thing.”

“Dreaming about being chased?” That’s basically the only dream he remembers having, if Frank ignores the always mortifying naked spelling test dreams that he honestly just finds funny once he wakes up.

“Yeah,” she tells him, laughs again. “I’ve never heard a woman say they’ve dreamt about being chased. They dream about drowning, falling, getting knocked up. Never being chased.”

“Huh,” he says, because what’s he supposed to say to that, honestly.

“You gonna be able to get back to sleep?” she asks then.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. He still feels little tendrils of fear, little flashes, like sparks, of anxiety that set his heart pounding, knows he won't be able to sleep, will just turn his worry over in his mind until someone puts him out of his misery. “What about you? You sleep at all?”

“Little bit,” she says casually, though something in her voice makes Frank doubt her words.

He gives her a look, but otherwise ignores it. It’s not like it matters, he can't go back in time and let her sleep. And at this point, she seems completely awake.

“Coffee?” she asks. “Or you want your present first?”

“Honestly,” he says, giving her a sheepish grin. “I kind of just want a shower.”

Laurel nods. “Me too. Except I can’t figure out how to do that without getting these wet,” she says, holding up her bandaged arm.

His grin turns lopsided. “Babe, nothing would give me greater pleasure than ensuring your stitches stay dry in the shower.”

She rolls her eyes. “I bet.”

“I’ll get other parts of you wet if you want,” Frank tells her, waggling his eyebrows.

“And there it is,” she teases, affecting weariness.

“You know you love it.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Just tie a trash bag over my wrist and get me clean you dirty man.”

He throws the covers off, swings his legs over the side of the bed. Frank finds a plastic bag buried in the back of his suitcase, he’d wrapped Laurel’s gift in one, hoping that she wouldn't snoop too much around something wrapped in a Wawa bag. He grabs it anyway, hopes Laurel doesn't notice the wrapping paper that he tucks back in his suitcase.

He goes back to the bed, hands her the bag. Laurel sticks her hand into the bag, lets him wrap the handles around her wrist, tie them in a neat little bow.

She slides the paper ring off her left ring finger with her bagged hand, takes Frank’s and puts them together on the nightstand with a satisfied look.

“You think I could get you off like this?” she asks, holding up her bagged hand, moving her fingers inside, making a jerking motion with a wicked little grin.

“Probably,” Frank answers honestly. “But I’d really rather not get a sad trash bag shower handy if I can avoid it.”

Laurel laughs. “I think that can probably be arranged.”

He laughs too, tugs her into a standing position and kisses her, wrapping one hand in her hair, brushing his thumb against her neck.

He walks them backwards towards the bathroom, missing the door by a few inches, sending Laurel’s left shoulder careening into the door jam. She hisses, tugs on his lip with her teeth until he hisses too and rakes her nails against his back.

“Ass,” she tells him, though there’s little heat behind her words.

“Sorry,” he mumbles around her lips.

“No you’re not,” she bites his lip again, kisses the lingering heat away. She flips their positions, sets her hands on his chest, runs them over his pecs, roughly, sending little sparks of desire bursting in his gut, then sends Frank thudding into the wall.

“We even princess?” he asks, wincing at the stiffness that blooms in his shoulders.

“Never.”

He laughs at the challenge in her voice, tugs her bagged hand and draws her body to him, trying to draw her even closer. He kisses her again, slow and sweet, runs his hands along her hipbones, her sides.

He walks them backwards, finally makes it into the bathroom. Laurel slides her hands under the waistband of his boxers, slips them down his hips and nips at his neck as he kicks them off.

“Sure you don't want me to try with the bag?” she asks, teeth tugging at his earlobe, her left hand skittering low over his stomach.

“You’re not gonna let it go, are you?”

“No way,” she tells him. “I wanna know how desperate you are.” Laurel’s hand slips down, strokes her hand over his cock and he instantly begins to swell, lengthen in her hand.

“Desperate,” he groans. He’s always desperate for her.

“Show me.”

“How bout you show me instead,” he grins, sinking to his knees and hooking his thumbs into the thin waistband of her panties, pulling them, slow, off her hips. He hears her breathing go ragged, brushes his beard against the sensitive skin of her thighs, grins widely as her hips shift, stance going wider. He moves his lips against her center, feels the wetness beginning to pool there, inhales the scent of her arousal. He thinks he could probably spend the rest of his life on his knees for her.

“Frank,” she whines, then gains control of her voice, demands. “Don't tease.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He kisses her, deep, runs the flat of his tongue, his teeth, over her clit, laps at the moisture coating her, the tangy taste of her. He watches Laurel’s left hand connect with the wall behind her, fingers scrabbling over the tile, trying to gain purchase, as he continues to stroke his tongue against her folds.

She’s making little keening sounds, high in her throat and Frank speeds up the pace of his tongue, sucks her clit into his mouth, growls around it, letting her feel the vibrations deep in her bones.

She says his name again, breathy and urgent, the sound shooting right through him. Frank’d be the first to admit it, eating her out turns him on nearly as much as it does her. The little sounds she makes, how positively soaked he can get her, the way she comes undone because of him, well, maybe he’s a fucking narcissist, but knowing he can do those things to Laurel, knowing it's all because of him, well, it's almost enough to undo him completely. He’s never been accused of being selfish in bed, never focused more on his own pleasure than his partner’s. But with Laurel, well, he feels like he probably turns eating her out into art, his own form of worship, devotion. 

As he moves against her folds, Laurel’s hand threads through his hair, tugs at his scalp, and she slides her hips forward, needing more pressure against her center. Her voice sounds like a prayer, like begging, like he’s the only thing in her world.  
He grins, sure she can feel it, teeth running gently over her clit, mixing a hint of pain with her pleasure. He slides two fingers inside her, her body clenching around his knuckles as he begins to move his hand, stroke against her.

“More,” Laurel breathes, mouth falling open, her head lolling back against the wall. Her eyes are closed in pleasure and he can feel her body begin to tense as her orgasm approaches. God, Frank thinks, glancing up but not slowing the pace of his fingers, his tongue, he loves watching her come.

Her breaths come in short pants, a whine building low in her throat, and Frank slips another finger inside her, letting her grind against his hand, keeping up the pace of his tongue, lapping her up.

“Now who’s desperate,” he growls against her, making sure she feels every last deep rumble of his voice. A moan is pulled from her, low and breathy. His teeth nip once, twice against her clit and the moan goes high, catches in her throat.

She gasps again, body going stiff as he continues to stroke inside her, lets her ride it out before he stops his movements.

Laurel’s practically boneless, but she tugs at his hair and Frank stands, lets her kiss him, stroke her tongue against his.

She pulls him back towards the shower, hand still tangled in the hair at the back of his neck. She flips the shower on, steps away from Frank and ducks under the spray. He watches, transfixed, as drops of water slide down her body, from her collarbone, down over the curve of her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach, even lower. His mouth goes dry, and he kisses her, hungry and wanting. He doesn't think he’ll ever get enough of her.

She must feel the same because Laurel drops her head to his chest, runs her tongue over his nipple, adds her teeth, the look in her eyes desperate and wild. Her hand wraps around his cock, pumps him slowly, gets him hard and aching for her before he really even knows what's happened, her lips sucking at his neck, stoking his desire until it burns hot and quick.

“You gonna try to get me off with the bag?” he teases, thumb brushing against the side of her breast.

“Hell no,” she growls into his neck, wrist giving a vicious little twist to his cock that sets his hips stuttering forward, desperate for more, always more. “I want you to fuck me.”

And Frank’s not a man who can pass up an invitation like that. His hands go to Laurel’s shoulders, push her back against the slippery wall, lips crushing hers, leaving them swollen and bruised. Both of Laurel’s hands wrap around his shoulders, the plastic bag around her right hand rustling, crinkling against his skin.

She gives a little gasp as he lifts her off her feet, wraps her legs around his hips as his arm circles around her waist, her ass, holding her in place. With his free hand he positions himself at her entrance, slips inside her with a long, desperate thrust. Her walls are tight and dripping around him and he thrusts again, not allowing himself time to still inside her, savor the feeling.

The noise he pulls out of her sets his breath catching. She tugs on his earlobe with her teeth. “Faster,” she commands, nails of her left hand clutching at his back.

He has to obey; tries to set a ruthless, punishing pace, tries to make her wince, beg for him to slow.

She hisses as he slams into her, hips snapping against hers. Her left hand is above her head, grasping at nothing. He brings his right hand up to pin her hand there, fingers tangling together against the tiled wall, slide higher. Her legs tighten even further against his hips, back, as she kisses him, desperate, pleading and her whole body clutches at him, draws him closer, and Frank can feel nothing but her, wants to feel nothing but her. He’s ripping moans from her throat now, high, stuttering things that echo off the tiles sounding twice as loud, the only sounds he can hear. He scrapes his beard over the sensitive skin of her chest, follows it with his lips, her right hand on his back urging more pressure, more contact.

She meets his eyes, grins and kisses him. And something about that grin, well, it's a fucking challenge. He brings his right hand down between their bodies, down to the spot where their bodies join, thumb sliding slick against her clit, so hard he thinks she’s going to tell him to stop, go gentle. He knows she’ll still be sensitive from her first orgasm, expects her to want him to touch her so light she can barely feel it.

She doesn't, just throws her head back against the tile, moans long and wanton and fuck. The sound buries itself deep and low in his stomach, the arousal in his bones no longer a dull hum but building to a blinding, crashing crescendo. He tries to speed his pace, feels it stutter, feels the moan that bursts out of him as Laurel’s cries fan his desire into something that burns uncontrolled and wild. Laurel mewls again, the sound mixing with his own guttural groan, her walls tightening around him, her body going tense. And it's all just too damn much, the feeling of her legs shaking against his hips, her quick pants against his lips, the hand that brushes against his cheek, scrapes over his beard; the pleasure overwhelms his brain and he comes, moaning long and low into her neck, letting her hips, her legs keep their bodies joined as they ride it out together.

They stay there long minutes, Frank still inside her, letting the warm water cascade over their heated bodies. They just kiss, slow and tender, Laurel staring into his eyes like he’s the only thing that matters, the only thing left in the world. He imagines he could stay like this forever.

And that’s about when Laurel tugs at his hair. “Put me down.”

He does; pulls out of her, sets her feet against the tile floor. He can tell her knees are a little weak, feels the tremor in her bones, but she covers it nicely, frowning affectionately at the pleased smirk she catches on his face, in his eyes.

She grabs some shampoo from the little caddy in the corner of the shower, tips some out into her left hand, scrubs furiously at her scalp with her uninjured hand as if that will get a lather going.

Frank chuckles under his breath, careful not to let her hear. He takes the bottle from her right hand, pours some into his palms, runs it through the soaked tresses of her hair and piles her hair on top of her head, rubbing the shampoo through it.

He slides his fingers along her scalp till she sighs, eyes slipping closed, biting softly at her bottom lip.

There is something too intimate about the moment, Frank thinks, his own eyes closing as he tends to her, something wonderful and terrible all at once in having her rely, so completely and trustingly, on him.

“I think that’s good,” she tells him eventually, stilling his hands with her own, placing a kiss against his jaw. “Thank you.”

“I like playing with your hair,” he says.

Her smile is young, unguarded. “I like you playing with my hair too.”

“Lucky for conditioner then, huh?” Frank huffs against her neck, fingers playing with the short, fine hairs behind her ears, moving to trip his thumb against the hollow of her throat until her breath hitches. He follows the path of his fingers with his lips, his teeth, his tongue.

“Yeah,” she echoes, voice going distant as he scrapes his beard against her neck, like words are rapidly becoming impossible.

“Good thing.”


	29. Chapter 29

They use up what would probably be the entirety of the water tank in their apartment back in Philly. Frank wonders idly if Laurel, as part of her truly absurd deal with her father, will pay for water use; decides she probably doesn't if she’s negotiating hotel rates with Jorge, but makes it a point not to ask.

“So,” he asks, buckling his belt and smoothing down the front of his shirt. “What are the Castillo Christmas traditions I need to know about today?”

Laurel tugs her pants on, runs a hand through her still dripping hair. “Presents for the kids in the morning. Then church. Dinner in the afternoon. Mostly just drinking after that.”

“So we can skip that part?” he asks, thinking it's probably going to be a disaster either way, given that Laurel’s just killing time before turning her father in. He tugs on a waistcoat, then a tie, threading it around his neck, tying it smoothly and buttoning the waistcoat across his chest.

“Definitely not,” Laurel tells him, fishing a loose, silky looking tank out of her suitcase, pulling it over her head. Frank is left gaping at the smooth planes of her stomach, the shifting of her muscles under her skin, left wishing they lived someplace warm like Florida so he wasn't so used to expecting a cardigan thrown over top. “I have so many relatives half of them don't get a dinner invite. And dad invites his people over; it turns into an open house after dinner.”

He turns away, distracts himself by rolling up his sleeves over his forearms.

“I got you something,” Laurel says, coming over to him from her suitcase, holding a small package wrapped in simple green paper.

“Yeah?”

She nods, shrugs. “I didn't want to give it to you with the rest of them.”

Frank takes the package, sets it on the dresser and goes to his own suitcase. “Fair’s fair then,” he tells her, tossing her the present from where he’d stashed it in his own suitcase. He’s forgotten about her injured hand, like an idiot; watches her try to catch it in her left, bobble it against her chest before it drops, heavy to the ground.

“Hope it wasn’t breakable,” Laurel says quips, rolling her eyes, not really looking all that disgruntled about it.

He grins. “It wasn't.”

He settles himself on the floor, back against the bed frame, waits for Laurel to join him. Their guest room is nice, he decides, but it could really use a damn couch. She settles herself next to him, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, knocks playfully at his shins with her toes.

“You first,” she tells him, nodding at him with her chin.

Frank’s grin spreads wider, he shakes the package lightly, raising his eyebrows at her.

She gives him an exasperated look. “I never said it wasn't breakable.”

“Is it?”

Laurel shakes her head. “Not really the point.”

He laughs. “So, small, not breakable and able to get through airport security.”

“Something like that.” She rolls her eyes at him, but her smile is affectionate. She sends a slightly harder kick to his leg.

“A watch, then,” he guesses, going for the obvious.

“Nope, not a watch,” she frowns at him. “Just open the damn thing.”

He grins, slides his nail under the wrapping paper, pulling it open. Inside is a small, black box. Frank looks up at her with a teasing grin. “You proposing again, princess?”

“No,” she growls, eyes flashing. “They’re cuff links. And you’re an ass.”

He grabs her hand, strokes his fingers along her palm. “Sorry,” he tells her, giving her an apologetic smile, but thinks it might slide into something cocky.

“No you’re not,” Laurel says, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

He pops open the clasp on the box, eyes on Laurel’s. “What? You think I’m not classy enough?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “I’m just helping you maintain your swag.”

He grins, glances down at the cuff links inside. Small, stainless steel, one long edge straight, the other curved, with a little notch in the center of the cuff links.

“Seriously?” he asks, as it dawns on him just what the little notches are. “Swiss army cuffs?”

Laurel grins, shy and hopeful. “I thought you might like them.”

“They’re awesome,” he tells her, picking one up and flicking the blade out. It’s small, less than an inch long, but sharp as hell, Frank realizes has he runs his thumb over the edge. He’s not sure anyone else would think to get him cuffs that also doubled as weapons, but Laurel, well, if anyone gets the strange, disparate parts of him, it's her. “Would it be too obvious if I wore them to dinner later?”

Something cunning and wicked flashes across her face before she chases it away. “They won't notice,” she says with a little shake of her head. 

“Well let's see if they notice what I got you,” he says, picking up her largely forgotten gift, handing it back to her.

“You wanna…” she asks, trailing off as she indicates the wrapped gift, his new cuff links.

Frank chuckles as he slices through the wrapping paper for her. “Stylish _and_ useful.”

“You are,” she agrees, tearing the paper away.

He wasn't quite so careful about packaging; once the wrapping paper is gone, her gift is just tucked inside the white paper bag he bought it in.

“I got you jewelry too,” he tells her, almost as an afterthought as she slides his gift out of the bag. “Among other things.”

He kind of had to scramble, if he’s being honest, since he’d toyed so long with the idea of proposing, making _that_ his gift. And when he finally wised up and accepted that it was a truly terrible idea to attempt it in Florida, well, he was pretty limited on time. Still, he thinks she’ll like it, she’s always wearing bracelets, letting him idly play with them, slip them around her wrist when he’s half asleep or trying to distract her from studying.

She turns the bracelet over in her hand, studying it. It's eight or ten thin metal chains, rings woven together to create a bracelet a few inches wide.

“You said you always felt like you needed armor for court,” he says, grin going lopsided. “I looked into getting you a helmet, too expensive.”

Laurel laughs, kisses his cheek. “I think this will do the trick,” she tells him, offering him her wrist to secure the bracelet.

“I got you something else too,” he says then, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “But it’s not here, too big to lug down.”

“A pony?” she asks sarcastically.

Frank chuckles. “Definitely not a pony. Here,” he finds the email, passes her his phone.

“Bar-Bri?” she asks, her face going still. And Frank can't tell whether Laurel is shocked or angry or indifferent, doesn't quite know how to respond if she is less pleased than he expected she’d be.

“Yeah,” he says, cautious, trying to put out feelers, gauge her mood. “You were worried about paying for bar prep courses, kept trying to convince that annoying girl who smells like ham to give you a better rate. So, I took care of it.”

“Frank,” she says, and something in her voice has a note of warning, an edge sharper than on his cuff link blades. She’s still staring at his phone, at the email receipt, not looking up.

“Hey, it's not like I’m not gonna benefit from this too,” he tells her, trying to sound casual. “I’m hoping you pass the bar and I can retire to a life of being catered to by my hot-shot lawyer sugar mama.”

He sees the hint of a smile play across her lips, though her eyes remain fixed on the screen, seemingly deciding something.

“You asked me to marry you, Laurel,” he says, trying not to let anything like frustration creep into his voice. “And I was gonna ask you. Did you think we’d just keep our finances separate or something? Everything that’s mine, it’s yours, money for bar prep included.”

“Ok,” she says, finally looking up, the sharpness smoothed from her voice. “It's just…it's just a lot.”

“I know,” Frank says, knocking her shoulder with his, grinning widely at her. “Felt like I was being extorted, the price they were asking.”

“Well,” she tells him, kicking her toes into his shin again. “The entire legal system extorts you until you pass the bar. My JD will be worth less than the paper it's printed on unless I can pass the bar.”

“You will,” he assures her for the thousandth time, certain.

“Thank you,” Laurel says, passing back his phone, keeping their hands joined. “For believing dropping a grand on Bar-Bri won't be a waste.”

He laughs. “You’re easily top five smartest people I know, it’s not gonna be a waste.”

She rolls her eyes, strokes her fingers along his jaw. “Only top five?”

He takes a long moment to consider. “Maybe top three on a good day.”

She laughs, lets him kiss her. “Ass,” she tells him, kisses him again.

* * *

 

  
Other people’s families are _weird,_ Frank thinks, not for the first time. He’s sitting on a leather loveseat next to Laurel, who’s gone practically boneless beside him, legs curled up under her body, exhausted and fighting sleep.

Her niece and nephews are busy tearing into their presents with Vanessa presiding over things to ensure no skirmishes.

Hector, looking utterly miserable, is slumped at Laurel’s feet, back against the couch, a mug of coffee that Frank is beginning to suspect contains something a bit stronger than coffee clutched in his hands. He has said nothing to Laurel, nothing to Frank, hasn't acknowledged the events of the previous evening, instead simply looks miserable and somber, looks like he wishes the floor would swallow him up. Laurel runs her uninjured hand through her brother’s hair, gives him a small, encouraging smile and Frank sees something in him ease, sees the corners of his mouth twitch, just slightly. Elena is nowhere to be seen and Jorge is pacing the other side of the room, shouting in both English and Spanish at someone to ‘just take care of it,’ whatever that may be.

Whatever has him upset, Laurel and Hector appear to be mostly ignoring the call, aside from a few quick, assessing glances, so Frank decides it can’t be too dangerous, focuses on his coffee, on the feeling of Laurel’s body, heavy against his, on her breath, hot on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Hector says then, directing his words more to his mug than anywhere else. Frank almost pities the hangover he’s sure Hector is feeling, he can see how nearly every shriek and shout from the kids results in a wince from Hector, a deep frown. He thinks it's the least Hector deserves, considering, thinks it's probably nothing compared to the flaming, tearing pain Laurel must be feeling. “What are you gonna tell mom about your hand? You know she’s gonna ask.”

Frank wonders if the question is more about assuaging his own guilt, ensuring no one knows what he’s done, and less about keeping their stories straight. Because despite Hector’s near complete meltdown the night before, his professed guilt and grief for what he’d done, he's back to himself, seems to want to ignore the previous evening.

Laurel makes an annoyed sound, lifts her head off Frank’s shoulder and blinks owlishly as though she’s only half awake. “She won't notice,” she says, voice slow and hoarse. Frank continues to doubt that, doesn't see how her family is going to be able to overlook the too-white bandages around her hand. But Frank supposes Laurel knows better than he does, knows what things her parents care about and what they don't, what they’ll choose to overlook even if they do notice.

“Can I tell her you got wasted and tried to cut a bitch?” Hector asks, fixing his mug with a devilish grin.

Frank can tell Laurel tries not to laugh, can’t help herself. Hell, Frank can’t help himself, lets out a quick bark of laughter, looks away and takes a long sip of coffee to cover it. He wants to hate the kid, hate him for making a joke about an injury he caused, but he can’t, because Laurel doesn't, he knows he has to let it go.

“Sure,” Laurel tells him, yawning, grinning slipping wide. “Tell Elena some skank tried to hit on Frank and I had to teach her a lesson. With my fists.”

“Nice,” Hector says nodding. “Frank? You ok with telling everyone Laurel got jacked up defending your honor?”

Frank shrugs, gives Laurel a grin out of the corner of his mouth. “Why not.”

“Nice,” Hector says again, turning his head slightly to give a long look at his sister. “Mom won’t be able to decide whether to love it or be horrified.”

Laurel snorts. “My money’s on horrified since my attempted assault went down at the club.”

Hector nods seriously, takes a long sip of his coffee. “True, got to keep up appearances.”

Laurel’s eyes roll. “It’s very gauche to start fights at the club, darling,” she says, mimicking her mother.

“Very gauche,” Hector echoes with a laugh, reaching up and knocking Laurel’s knee. “I got you something, by the way.”

She gives him a questioning look.

“For Christmas, duh,” he says, shaking his head. “Nerd.”

“Yeah?” she asks, a little smile spreading across her face. “Cuban rum?”

Hector nods, looking pleased at Laurel’s reaction, almost childlike in his excitement. “Two handles. I put them in vodka bottles so you can them through security.”

Laurel laughs, looks over at her father, still shouting at someone over the phone. “Look at you Hec. You could give him a run for his money.”

And it takes Frank a minute to realize it, but it eventually dawns on him, belatedly, that this is maybe the first time Laurel has casually alluded to what her dad does for a living, what widespread illegal activities make up Jorge Castillo’s empire. He feels like maybe something has shifted between them, now that at least part of the truth has emerged, feels like she’s not hiding things, weighing her words, what she can say to him, what she must keep held tight against her chest. He wishes Laurel had never felt like she had to hide her father, her family, from him, ever felt like he wouldn’t or couldn't understand, couldn't love her if the truth emerged, but he’s glad that is over between them, glad he doesn't have to pretend he doesn't know certain things, doesn’t find himself left guessing at many more.

“I got some cigars too,” Hector says then, shifting his gaze to Frank. “If you want any.”

Frank shrugs. He’s not a huge smoker, but well, he’s not sure he can pass up an offer of Cuban cigars. “Thanks. I’ll take a couple if they’re going begging.”

“I’ve got a friend in the ‘import’ business,” Hector explains, putting emphasis on the euphemism with a sarcastic wiggle of his eyebrows. “He gives me a few handles for Laurel every year cause he thinks he can bribe her into sleeping with him.”

She rolls her eyes. “Len’s like sixty five and balding. Plus, isn't he married?”

Hector nods, smirks into his mug. “He is. All three; old, balding and married. But he gets good stuff, so I’ll trade you for rum and cigars.”

“Thanks, Hec,” she says sarcastically. “Nice to know I’m worth a couple of handles and a half dozen cigars.”

“You’re worth at least that plus a ’58 Chevy,” Frank tells her affectionately, taking her hand and hooking their fingers together.

She gives him a derisive glance. “A whole ’58 Chevy? Be still my heart.”

There’s a wild shout from Leo at the other end of the room, Marco too, Frank thinks and all three of them glance up in unison. Vanessa’s kids, all still in Christmas-themed footy pajamas that Frank honestly kind of covets, are now ripping open long, thin packages. Leo’s is mostly open, revealing what Frank decides is a green plastic lightsaber toy.

Laurel groans beside him. “You’re to blame for this aren't you?” she directs her words to Hector, sounding more annoyed and resigned than angry.

Hector looks up at them, bats his eyes innocently. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You,” Laurel grits out accusingly. “Bought the four of them fake weapons.”

Hector’s face slides into a wild grin. “I did. It’s gonna be awesome.”

And honestly, Frank’s kind of with Laurel on this one. One kid with a fake sword is bad enough, four is probably likely to wind them all up back at Palm Beach General or wherever the hell Laurel got stitched up the night before.

Michael, his pirate-loving nephew, occasionally enlists his four year old sister Ava as his assistant in his attacks on Frank. Frank thinks he probably winds up with triple, rather than double the bruises and it's usually only when Laurel convinces Ava to join up with her and double-cross her Michael in the name of female solidarity that the bloodlust for killing Uncle Frank subsides.

“I got Luna a purple one, like Samuel L. Jackson’s,” Hector is telling them gleefully.

Laurel makes a face, annoyed and derisive. “I’m letting them murder you.”

Hector gives her a dark look, and for the first time, Frank isn't left wondering what the hell is going on, what the hell Hector means, why there has been a sudden shift in the room, a sudden drop in temperature, a rising tension. Now, he thinks he might almost get it, like he’s looking at shadows on a wall. “No you won't,” he tells her.

And she won't, and they both know it, and Hector will keep bringing up what happened, what Laurel thinks she did for him, what he thinks she did to him, because he knows it works, makes her hurt like Hector hurts and he can’t seem to let that pain go.

If Frank can see what he’s doing, Laurel certainly can, but she lets it go this time, either because now that Frank knows there’s no point in forcing Hector to keep his mouth shut, or because she literally has bigger fish to fry today, or because after last night the wound is already open and raw and bleeding and one more swipe at her won't make a bit of difference, or simply because she’s too tired, too exhausted to respond.

“Who'd you get the red one for?” Frank asks, trying to diffuse the tension, watching Marco and Eric pass the red saber back and forth, both of them taking admiring swipes with it, only coming slightly too close to Leo’s head.

“Eric, of course,” Hector says with a chuckle. “I’m excited to watch Nessa try to get these things on the plane without a disaster.”

“That's why I got them books,” Laurel interjects, raising her head slightly off Frank’s shoulder, to stare hard at Hector before laying her head back down again. Frank thinks she must be truly tired beyond measure because he doesn't think she would disclose any hint of her weakness, her pain, in any other circumstance, were she any less drained. Even so, Frank thinks, he likes when she leans on him, relies on him. He wishes too she would do it other times when she’s not nearly crippled by hurt and weariness, wishes she would just do it because she can, because she wants to.

Hector scoffs. “That's cause you’re the boring aunt. I,” he tells her loftily. “Am the cool uncle.”

“I went with Roald Dahl this year, got Eric _The Witches,_ ” she continues, as if she thinks that will make a difference to Hector.

Apparently it does though, because he grins, raises his eyebrows. “That’s cold, L,” he says. “I love it.”

“I thought you might.”

“Lemme guess,” he says then. “Luna got _Matilda,_ obviously. Leo got something super simple, maybe _Fantastic Mr. Fox?_ And Marco,” he pauses, thoughtfully. “Not that idiot chocolate book. _James and the Giant Peach?_ ”

“I got Marco _The BFG,_ ” Laurel tells him, smug little smile playing over her face. Frank almost chuckles, because Laurel is competitive about everything, even this seemingly stupid effort by Hector to guess what books she bought the kids, and he can tell how pleased she is that Hector missed one, that she wasn’t too obvious in her picks and stumped him.

The two little boys, Marco and Leo, have come over to them now, brandishing their new lightsabers gleefully. Vanessa and the other kids are cleaning up the piles of torn wrapping paper, Eric trying to stab his lightsaber blade through the crumpled balls of paper.

“Thank you _Tio,_ ” Leo and Marco chime in unison, then whack Hector on both shoulders, but lightly.

“Of course, little monsters” he says, grabbing them tightly around the waists, dragging them to topple over in his lap, tickling them until they shriek with giggles.

Laurel plucks the two lightsabers from her nephews’ grasp, hands the green one to Frank and taps the boys gently on the heads with the plastic blades. They continue giggling, try grasping at the lightsaber, get pulled back into Hector’s grasp.

Frank holds up his blade, pulls a face as Laurel crosses blades with him, laughing. They pretend to spar for a moment, Laurel making a series of increasingly serious faces until Leo wriggles out of Hector’s grasp, pulls himself up onto the couch to sit atop Laurel’s feet. He snuggles into Laurel’s side, lets his brother continue getting tickled.

Yeah, Frank thinks again, other people’s families are weird as hell. If Frank didn't know otherwise, he’d think that Laurel’s family was perfectly functional; just another family lazing around on Christmas morning, messing around with their new gifts. The Castillos don't always act like there’s a dark cloud hanging over them, a specter haunting their every move, it's as though sometimes they can forget the past, the heavy weight easing off their chests until they can just be a normal family. Frank can't decide what’s worse, that they can all, Hector and Laurel and Jorge and the lot of them, forget what’s been done, still being done, that they can ignore it, pretend it's not there, not still paining them, or the original wound itself. He doesn't know, doesn't think he can know, and honestly doesn't think it is even something that can be put on a scale of horrible things. But it makes him angry and sad in a way he can’t quite verbalize, that they all hide it, ignore it so well that Frank doesn't think he’d notice the problem, the cracks, the rot underneath the façade if he wasn’t looking for it.

But Laurel takes her blue lightsaber, pokes it into Leo’s chest softly, gives Leo a soft smile and Frank thinks that he ought to be glad, grateful that however bad things were, however bad things are, Laurel can continue on, doesn't let the past control her, dictate how she acts, reacts. “Gotcha,” she says to Leo as the lightsaber hits his chest.

He sits back sharply, laughs high and light. “You killed me _Tia_!” he tells her, sounding affronted.

“I did,” she agrees, poking him again.

Leo sticks his tongue out, flinches away when Laurel mimes tickling him. “Is this the best thing you got for Christmas?”

He nods, very seriously.

“It is a very good gift,” she says, handing it back to him, then glancing significantly down at Marco and Hector.

Leo is apparently smart enough to take the hint, because he stabs the lightsaber into what looks like Hector's neck, which sets the battle between the three of them going again.

Laurel glances over at Frank, gives him a long, slow smile, settles herself against his shoulder again.

“You gonna fall asleep on me?” he murmurs into her hair.

“Probably,” she hums, nuzzling her nose against his collarbone, and he feels her smile press into his skin.

“What about breakfast?” he whines. “I’m gettin’ hungry.”

“Suck it up,” she tells him softly. “Just gimme twenty minutes.”

Frank rolls his eyes, doesn't think Laurel notices, and sighs heavily. “Fine, you got twenty. Then I need more coffee and some pancakes.”

She laughs lightly. “Pancakes sound amazing, but honestly, sleep sounds better.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm pretty sure that I'm going to be finishing writing this within the next few days. (!!!) It's looking like it'll come out to ~60 chapters, so I guess we're halfway there (again, !!!) ...but. Here's the thing: what am I gonna do when I'm done? 
> 
> I've got a few ideas floating around (one of which is an S2 fix-it, but I feel like there's a couple of really good fix-it fics out there already...)  
> So, I guess my point is that I might be polling people for ideas on what to do soon, if anyone's interested in bossing me around, fic-wise.
> 
> So, that's that, but for now, here's Up the Wolves, while it's still going strong...

In the end he lets Laurel sleep more like forty five minutes, folded tight between his body and the loveseat. He's a sucker, he’ll admit it, and despite all the things it means, he likes when she’s able to sleep against him, likes the feeling of their bodies touching, hell, he likes that sometimes she’s just willing to rely on him, just a little bit, use him as a glorified pillow.

Frank’s a little surprised though that she sleeps so long. Between Marco and Leo eventually taking their battle to their older siblings, which resulted in a mess of screams and shouts and a long minute of uncontrolled laughter from Hector, and Jorge's increasingly irate phone calls to a series of people who’s Christmas, Frank suspects, is irreversibly ruined, he’s not really sure how Laurel even stays asleep. She’s usually such a light sleeper, can barely sleep if he has the tv on in another room. But apparently the cure for her deadly combo of insomnia and hair-trigger sleeping is just rage and grief and pain in equal but heaping measures. He almost doesn't care though, is just grateful she’s sleeping at all after what he suspects was fitful twenty minute cat-naps the night before. He doesn't know how she manages to sleep now, with all the chaos and noise, but she does and that's good enough for Frank.

Eventually Paola enters to tell everyone that breakfast is out on the patio, which clears the room out pretty quickly. Even Jorge follows her instructions, continuing to shout on the phone.

When Frank makes a move to wake Laurel though, Paola gives him a stern look, wags her finger at him and turns on her heel to leave the room. So he lets her sleep, doesn't even consider waking her up when his arm begins to fall asleep, pins and needles shooting from his wrist to his shoulder when he tries to shift positions slightly, work out the knots forming in his joints.

Eventually she wakes on her own; he can only tell because of a shift in her breathing, a little tremor in her limbs. 

“Hey,” she rasps against his neck.

“You sleep ok?” he asks, turning to look at her as she raises her head slightly off his shoulder.

She nods, slowly rolling the stiffness out of her neck, her shoulders, pushing her hair back from her face with her left hand.

“Hungry?” Frank asks, because he’s practically starving.

Laurel nods again, smiles softly. “I’m sorry I kept you from food.”

“Nah,” he tells her, matching her smile, though he begins to work the stiffness out of his own body, rolls his shoulder, his wrist as the little bursts of prickling pain begin to fade. “I like when you let me be your pillow.”

She stands, takes his hand and tugs Frank to his feet. “Did my dad ever sort out who fucked up the delivery last night?”

Frank shrugs. “He was still mad when he left, so I’m gonna say no.”

Laurel almost laughs, guides him by their joined hands down the hall. “It’s a Christmas tradition. His guys want the day off, so they get one of their bag boys to handle things for the day, tell them it's a promotion. And inevitably, someone drops the ball.”

“Seems like someone would eventually learn.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “You’d be surprised how religious some of my dad’s guys are. Can’t miss church on Christmas.”

“Like Adrian?” Frank asks, remembering the stilted invitation to Christmas Eve Mass the night before.

The grin that slides onto Laurel’s face is wicked. “That’s all Colleen. Adrian’s secretly an atheist.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “Really? Wouldn’t’ve guessed that.” And honestly, he wouldn’t have, not just cause, yeah, in his experience, people in Adrian’s line of work tend to hold tight to some kind of code, some kind of belief structure, to help justify, help order the things they must do. In his experience too, it's the ones without religion, without some kind of moral guide, who are the most dangerous. He files that knowledge away, vows to keep a closer eye on Adrian from here on out.

Because, despite everyone, Laurel included, seeming to think Adrian poses little threat compared to Jorge, Frank can see the idolization, the worship Adrian has for his father, the constant search for approval and praise, knows that Adrian would do anything for his father. And that makes him dangerous, Frank knows, because he will not be swayed by logic, by common sense, by threats against his safety; he will protect his father, do what he thinks he must to earn a fucking pat on the head, consequences be damned. Frank knows, with certainty, that Adrian cannot get wind of what Laurel has planned, what happened the night before, even that she encountered Special Agent Engle at all.

“Yeah,” Laurel nods then. “I think he only goes cause it helps him keep up appearances of being the good son with dad.”

Frank smirks. “Oh, you mean Hector isn't a regular churchgoer?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “I know, it's a shocker. Speaking of,” she says, trailing off and giving him a look that might be trepidatious. “Do you feel up to Mass today? Dad’s going to ask, but we don't have to.”

He shrugs, gives her a teasing grin. “I was raised Catholic too babe. You think I haven't sat through plenty of Christmas Masses because my mom insisted on it?”

“I actually kind of enjoy it,” she says, small smile tugging at her lips. “Sit back and close my eyes and listen to the choir.”

Frank wishes it were Easter, wishes that there was half a hope of getting a sermon on forgiveness, wishes for anything, man or God, that would convince Laurel to turn back, reconsider, choose any other option besides turning on her father, setting herself up for a decade in the clink or a long, slow death. But he knows that Christmas Mass isn't likely to turn her away, turn her off her path of revenge, of wrath, that nothing he says is likely to turn her away and the best he can do is do what he can to keep things from ending in disaster.

“I’ll poke you if you fall asleep,” he tells her as they step out onto the patio where the rest of the assembled Castillos are busily devouring what looks like omelets and waffles and plates of cut fruit.

Frank’s mouth begins to water before he can help it. Laurel must notice because her smile widens, becomes teasing. “I didn’t make you wait that long for food, did I?”

“Nah,” he says, willing to forgive her anything now that he’s so close to food.

“Good,” she says wickedly. “Then I won't bother to make it up to you.”

Frank laughs, squeezes her hand slightly as they take their seats around the large steel and glass table.

Vanessa gives them a look as they sit down, passes Laurel the plate of waffles. “You ok kid?” she asks as Laurel takes the heavy plate, bringing her left hand under the platter when it becomes clear she can’t support it with her injured right.

“Sure,” Laurel says, not sounding particularly convincing, especially given her grimace as she sets the platter down between her plate and Frank’s.

Vanessa gives her another long, searching look. “You look rougher than Hector,” she tells Laurel.

“Thanks,” Laurel answers sarcastically, shoveling a waffle onto her plate, handing the serving fork to Frank and grabbing the syrup from the middle of the table. He takes a couple of waffles, pours himself more coffee and tries to psyc himself into eating some fruit.

“I’m not even hungover anymore, Nessa,” Hector chimes in from across the table, looking inordinately pleased with himself, though no less hungover than he did an hour ago. Frank’s honestly half-impressed at Hector’s ability to bounce back from the his panic of the night before, his ability to pretend that nothing is wrong. Because after his near-catatonia, his panic and rage, Frank would’ve bet money that Hector would be barely functional in the morning, would still be feeling the effects of his run in with Jeff Engle. But aside from looking a little drawn, a little stiff, Frank isn't sure he would be able to tell he’d been barely coherent less than twelve hours before.

Both Laurel and Vanessa roll their eyes. “Because that’s Irish coffee,” Vanessa tells him with a withering glance, turning back to Laurel, gesturing to her bandaged hand. “What happened there? It doesn't look anywhere near ok.”

“L had to go after some skank who was trying to step onto Frank,” Hector pipes up, grin wide and filled with glee. And yet, Frank can see the panic humming like a wire underneath the cockiness and humor, the desperate hope that he will be believed, that Laurel will play along with his lie, _allow_ him his lie.

Everyone’s eyes immediately flash to the two of them; Vanessa tries not to look horrified, Elena’s mouth forms a tight little line, jaw hard and Jorge’s eyes flash with something Frank decides must be anger. Frank thinks, maybe belatedly, that he and Laurel and Hector really shouldn't be telling Jorge _anything_ about how Laurel cut her hand, should be trying to downplay her injury so that he can’t possibly suspect that her stitches are the result of anything other than an unfortunate but everyday injury that has nothing at all to do with Special Agents Jeff fucking Engle or Douglas fucking Barrow.

“ _Mija?_ ” Jorge prompts, pinning her with a stare that could melt steel. “Is this how you hurt your hand?”

“No worries dad,” Laurel tells him, voice strenuously casual, eyes dropping to her plate. “I just slipped last night, broke some glass.”

“You were drunk then?” he asks, voice still cold.

“No, not drunk,” she says, assuming an embarrassed little smile. “Just clumsy.”

Jorge fixes Frank with a cold stare. “Frank? Is this true?”

Frank glances at Laurel, wonders what she thinks about her father doubting her version of events, wanting the corroboration of a man he met barely 36 hours before, who he doesn't know at all. He wonders if she’s used to this, this subtle undermining, this lack of trust in her. He wonders if it's a gender thing, wants to laugh at himself for suspecting it probably is, thinks he really is fucking whipped if he’s having these unabashedly feminist thoughts, honestly doesn't care as much as he thinks he would’ve five years ago, because well, it is kind of fucked up that Jorge doesn't appear to be taking Laurel’s word for it.

Laurel’s face is impassive, stony, and Frank thinks, yeah, this must be passing over some well-tread territory; she’s clearly accustomed to the questioning, the assumption that she must be hiding something, obscuring the truth somehow.

“Yeah,” Frank says shortly, fixing Jorge with a cold stare. “It’s true.”

“You needed stitches?” he asks, attention going back to Laurel.

She nods.

“Awesome!” Eric pipes up from Vanessa’s other side. “Can I see?”

Laurel rolls her eyes, grins. “Sure,” she says, humoring him, but only after she glances over at Vanessa, gets a permissive nod. Laurel rips the medical tape with her teeth, unwraps the gauze from her hand and holds up her hand to Eric, palm out.

“Gross!” Eric exclaims, impressed and excited, peering intently at Laurel’s hand. Frank tries to look away, doesn't like seeing the angry redness of her skin, the stark black sutures across her palm, doesn't like thinking of why she has them to begin with; Nestor Serrano and Doug Barrow and murdered hit-men and the glass bottle slashing against Laurel’s hand. He still feels a little sick, a little lightheaded looking at Laurel’s hand, remembering the hot blood, remembering the wild, desperate look in her eyes, and the hopelessness in her voice. “Did it bleed a lot?”

Laurel nods, bugs her eyes out at Eric. Frank honestly doesn't know how she can do it, how she can look at her hand, be reminded of it and not give any indication of the cause, or the terrible knowledge that lead to her injured hand. “It did.”

“Cool,” he says, as though he’s handing down judgment, has decided Laurel passes some test.

Leo, sitting next to Eric, gives a little shudder, looks away. Frank can sympathize, gives Leo an encouraging smile when he looks back up, decides he might like Leo the best.

“I wanna see too,” Marco insists from Vanessa’s other side, leaning out over the table, little hands propped on either side of his plate.

Laurel sticks her tongue out at Marco. “Fine, you too,” she says, extending her hand toward him too.

He looks hard at her hand, eyes narrowed seriously. “Did it hurt?”

“Little bit,” Laurel tells him casually with a little shrug.

“Wicked,” Marco declares with that same mixture of judgment and excitement Eric had.

“You gonna let me eat now?” she asks after he’s inspected her hand for a long moment.

Marco sticks his tongue out, pops a blueberry into his mouth.

Laurel mimics him with a quick laugh. “Anyone else?”

The rest of her family declines, so she goes back to her food.

“Sorry, L,” he hears Vanessa lean over and whisper to Laurel, eyes flicking to their father. “You sure you’re ok though?”

She nods. “I’m fine Nessa, don’t worry.”

“You don't look fine.”

Laurel’s face goes tight, still. “I’m fine,” she insists again, her voice sharp, clearly ending any further discussion.

Vanessa nods, looking far from convinced, but shrugs and turns to Marco, spooning more fruit onto his plate. “No more waffles till you eat something healthy.”

Laurel rolls her eyes at Frank, grabs the coffee pot and fills her mug. “You want more?” she asks him, gesturing at his mug with the pot.

He nods and she fills his as well.

“Thanks,” he tells her, fixing her with a small smile.

She sets the coffee down, grimaces and rubs her thumb across her palm before tightening her right hand into a fist. “Can you remember if the doctor said I should keep it wrapped?”

“I think so, yeah,” Frank says, though honestly he’s been trying his best to forget most of the previous evening, doctor’s instructions included.

“Good,” she says. “Me too.”

He grabs another waffle from the tray, lets the conversation wash over him, a discussion with the kids over their favorite Christmas gifts, mostly lead by Hector who seems overly proud of the lightsabers as though he’s half shocked himself that they’re enjoying them so much and also like he’s compensating for the lack of attention, lack of affection, he’s so far received this trip from his father.

“You and Brian do gifts already, or saving them for after you get back and he really owes you?” Laurel asks, addressing her sister in a low voice.

Vanessa smiles tightly, tries to hide her discomfort with the question by taking a long sip of coffee. Interesting, Frank thinks, not knowing why Laurel’s sister dislikes the question, but deciding it's probably significant that she doesn’t. “After I guess,” she says stiffly.

“You get him anything? Or is Christmas away from the kids enough?”

“That will probably be it,” she says, voice still flat and expressionless.

Laurel hums, lets it go, deciding, like Frank, that this is not somewhere she should dig further. He wonders, though, about Laurel’s sister. She seems, to Frank’s admittedly untrained eye, like the most normal of Laurel’s siblings, the most stable, the one with all the markers of success; the doctor husband, the wealth, the four high-strung kids. He wonders if it's all a lie, that it covers something less rosy, like papering over a hole in the wall.

He’d probably think Laurel had it all together too if he didn't know her; near perfect grades and amazing law school internships and a job lined up before graduation. Except he’s always seen the darkness in her, maybe from that first encounter when she swung back at him when he expected her to curl up and crumble. He’s always recognized something lurking beneath her shy, quiet façade, a deep hurt yes, but also something ruthless. He wonders if Vanessa is hiding something similar, not Laurel’s coldbloodedness, but some pain like the memory of a bruise.

“Kids get you anything?” Laurel asks casually, trying to move the subject to less dangerous territory.

Vanessa rolls her eyes. “Little beasts let me sleep till like 8:30, that's probably the best I’ll get.”

“Rough,” Laurel says sympathetically. “You need us to watch them at Mass? Let you get into the communion wine or sneak out to the car for a nap?”

Vanessa’s mouth quirks. “All four of them?”

Laurel shrugs, smirks. “I’ll rope Colleen in too. Between the three of us, we’ll manage.”

“You’d think that, wouldn't you.”

Laurel grins. “One of them’ll fall asleep. And Frank can be intimidating when he wants.”

Vanessa glances at him idly, disinterestedly. “He doesn't look it.”

Laurel bursts out laughing, Frank has to smother a grin behind his mug. He wonders how most people can spot the violence in him, the brutality that lurks under his skin, the façade of his calm exterior, and Vanessa can skate over that lurking savagery without a backward glance. He wonders if she just doesn't care, or has been gone from her family with their own violence for so long that she simply doesn't recognize it, doesn't see the warning signs, the tells anymore.

Laurel recognized him immediately, the same way he recognized her, like calling to like. And Laurel’s father, seeing something in him that echoes in himself, his more trusted employees, recognizing the violence in Frank. He sometimes thinks he gives off some kind of warning to anyone who cares to notice, a subtle alarm, too low to be heard, but easily felt. He can tell in the way certain people avoid him, give him glances out of the corner of their eyes, like they’re checking to make sure a large and dangerous animal hasn’t stalked closer. He can tell in the way certain people are drawn to him, like moths to a flame, knowing the danger but unable to turn away, attracted by the possibility of disaster, of pain. But he’s not often used to people bowling past that warning of danger, ignoring it or not even noticing it. He wonders at it, wonders what it means, can't help but think perhaps Vanessa is ignoring her own better instincts on Laurel’s behalf, because she wants Frank to be a different kind of man for her sister.

He knows though, with perfect blinding certainty, he’s exactly the right kind of man for Laurel. With him and Laurel, all their jagged edges, all the things in them that are dark and bloody and savage; they don't have to be hidden away or disguised, they can see the light, accepted even if they're ugly and shattered. The two of them don't fit together perfectly, he doesn't think they ever will, they’re probably too broken for that, but they recognize each other, they can work in tandem, rely on each other; he can be strong where she is weak, she can take over when he falters. They’re two broken things knitted together to make something that may not run smooth, but it will run, steady and true, forever.

“You can strong arm Hector into helping,” he hears Vanessa recommend. “Everyone gets a kid.”

“I’ll take Marco,” Laurel says with a wry grin. “Frank?”

“The little one,” he says, recalling Leo’s aversion to Laurel’s injury, his pretty ineffective, but well-intentioned, assistance with cooking the day before. “Leo. I don't think he can outrun me.”

“Taking dibs on my kids,” Vanessa mutters sarcastically. “You’re a great aunt, L.”

Laurel fixes her with a pointed look. “You want a Netflix nap or not Ness?”

“You’ll cover for me if anyone asks?”

“Totally,” Laurel nods. “You got a phone call, stepped out for some air, went to the bathroom, broke a heel, Leo forgot his socks in the car.”

“You’ve been practicing,” Vanessa says with quick chuckle.

“Law school helps with that,” she quips, leans around Vanessa to address Marco. “Hey, Marco, wanna hang with me at church later?”

He looks up from plate, where he’s been running blueberries through the congealing syrup, gives her a skeptical look. “Ok. Can I touch your stitches?”

Laurel gives a little laugh, looks kind of shocked, though Frank feels that was probably an inevitable request from a five year old. “Uh, I guess so,” she tells him. “If you behave at Mass.”

“You’ll have to wash your hands too,” Vanessa tells him, fixing both Marco and Laurel with long stares. “And you know, they don't actually feel very interesting,” 

Marco frowns, glares at his mother.

“They feel a little like stitches on a baseball,” Laurel tells him, softly, giving him a reassuring smile.

Marco gets a serious look, brow furrowed, little frown creasing his face. “That doesn't sound interesting at all.”

“Nope,” she agrees. “But you can touch them and I won't let Eric.”

Marco grins, lowers his eyes. “Awesome.”


	31. Chapter 31

And that's how, two hours later, Frank is flanked by Laurel’s youngest nephews, the boys leaning over across his body, engaged in a furious thumb war. They’re silent, faces flushed and intense, fingers curling over each other, mouths open in silent laughter, trying to hush themselves, mostly failing.

Laurel grins at him over Marco’s head, catches the boy’s elbow and turns his body towards the front of the church with a stern look. Frank places Leo’s hand back in his lap, making a face at him, bugging his eyes out and baring his teeth.

Leo and Marco both stick out their tongues at Laurel, try to focus on the service. Frank’s having a hard time himself, feels a pang of sympathy for the two boys.

Marco takes Laurel’s hand, running his fingers over the edges of her bandages, then walking them up the thin raised line of the stitches, visible even under the layer of gauze. He tugs at the gauze slightly, pulling the weaving apart until Laurel gives him a dirty look. She appears not to be too bothered by the attention to her hand aside from the occasional tiny frown when Marco presses too hard against her skin.

Frank leans out a little bit, observing Luna on Laurel’s other side. She’s the only smart one, he thinks. She has a bible open on her lap, another book tucked inside that Frank doesn't think she’s looked up from once. He catches Laurel’s eye, directs her attention to her niece and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Matilda,” she mouths, looking more than a little pleased with herself, though she’s careful not to alert Luna, shifts slightly on the pew.

Laurel smooths her dress down her thighs, drawing Frank’s attention like a magnet. Its’s black again, and short, but cut almost too modestly, chest covered and sleeves to her elbows in the sweltering Florida morning, and it's definitely turning him on way more than it should.

God, he thinks blasphemously, if only they hadn't agreed to watch the kids he’d find some little used room, hell, even the confessional, and hike that dress up around her hips. He wants to slide his hands up her thighs until she gasps, run his teeth over her throat. Instead he thinks about donkeys and myrrh and three wise men trekking through the desert, anything to distract himself from Laurel.

He makes a mental note, tries to burn it through his skull so he doesn't ignore it, tells himself he shouldn't forget it in a haze of lust and the thrill of barreling forward with Laurel toward some idealized future; that kids will definitely put a damper on his ability to get laid. These aren't even his kids and they’re pretty successfully cock-blocking him, though Frank supposes they’re probably doing him a spiritual favor by keeping him from committing what are probably a number of sins in church, and on Christmas no less.

Leo takes Frank’s moment of distraction to fish something that looks like a Matchbox car out of his pocket, running it back and forth over the back of the pew in front of him, which sets Frank’s brain immediately back to the present. Marco, of course, is already leaning over Frank, trying to grab at the car, take it for himself. He and Laurel simultaneously reach their hands out, Frank to pluck the car from Leo, Laurel to still Marco’s grasping fingers. She shoots both of them a look, withering and disappointed. Both boys make tiny noises of protest, but are smart enough to let the matter drop.

“You think we need to take them outside for a minute?” he asks softly, trying to keep the boys from hearing. He thinks that may be a phrase he should get used to uttering, not just this weekend, but in the event he can ever convince Laurel that a kid of theirs would not only be fucking adorable and a little amazing, but a necessary fixture in their lives.

Laurel shakes her head minutely. “Let me see if I can distract them.”

She rifles through her purse for a moment, leans over to Luna to a have quick, hushed discussion with Colleen before turning back to her purse. She eventually looks up triumphantly, hands Marco and Leo each a pen. She fishes a couple of pieces of paper out as well, turns what looks like pages from the outline for her death penalty seminar over to the boys. Frank’s seen some of her reading for that class, hopes Marco doesn't turn the paper over to try sounding anything out. He hopes ‘sodium thiopental’ is a little beyond Marco’s reading level, hopes that if it isn't Laurel at least has the sense to make something up. He sometimes wishes she would make something up when he asked her about that class; twelve weeks and she's pretty successfully made him reconsider his thoughts on state sanctioned murder in a way that even the knowledge that if anyone who cared figured out the entire extent of his less than legal activities, well, he’d probably be looking at the wrong end of a sodium thiopental drip himself.

“Do not color on each other,” he hears Laurel tells them fiercely, warningly. “And first one to talk loses.”

“What should I draw?” Leo immediately asks Frank, trying to whisper, but his voice goes loud enough that both Laurel and Colleen turn and give Frank accusing looks, as if it's his fault the kid hasn't figured out how to regulate his voice. He thinks that too, is something he should probably anticipate becoming a fixture in his life, especially because he suspects a little mini-Frank or Laurel is not likely to accept “because I said so” as much of an answer.

Fortunately, whether out of politeness or deafness, the elderly couple sitting in front of them stays facing forward and Frank breathes half a sigh of relief. Laurel then turns her focus to Leo, fixing him with the same condemning glare.

“I dunno,” he leans close to whisper to Leo, making sure no one is going to hear them once Laurel’s turned her attention back to the front of the church. “You could try drawing _Tia’s_ angry face.”

Leo giggles, shakes his head. Marco is already furiously drawing, paper pressed against his knee, his little tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he intently moves his pen.

“What about you and Marco beating up _Tio_ Hector with your lightsabers?”

Leo snickers again, glances down the pew at his uncle, who still looks like a corpse that’s recently been thawed, pale and drawn and sweating and miserable. When the alter boys came through with their swinging incense Frank had thought for a moment that Hector was going to lose it completely, could see his jaw working, could see him swallow almost convulsively, shutting his eyes tight.

He's almost surprised that Hector didn't follow Vanessa out to the car half an hour ago, surprised he's not headed out there now. He must know what Vanessa’s off doing; Frank’s pretty sure everyone saw through her transparent excuse of checking the car for snacks for the kids, especially now that there’s been no sign of her for going on half an hour. No one seems particularly concerned though, he hasn’t caught any whispered discussions, any worried glances towards the back of the church, so he hopes its just that everyone is in on Vanessa’s brief parenting break and not that they just don't notice, don't care. In his family, Frank thinks, someone would have already sent a search party.

“Ok,” Leo tells Frank seriously, beginning to work intently at his paper. “Me and Marco can be Finn and Rey and _Tio_ can be Kylo Ren.”

Frank nods, knowing this has something to do with _Star Wars_ , but not really grasping the reference. He doesn't think it's a great idea to ask Leo, expects he’ll probably be in for a long, involved lecture, possibly including sound effects if he does, which doesn't seem like a great idea for Christmas Mass.

But Leo starts work on his drawing too, and they boys are silent through most of the next two hymns, working intently at their drawings. Frank looks down the pew to the end of the row where Eric is sitting beside his grandfather and Adrian. Frank noticed it when they first sat down, that Eric had taken a place beside Jorge and Adrian, rather than being bracketed by his aunts like his siblings. He’s not entirely sure what to make of that, isn't sure he shouldn't be worried, that Laurel shouldn't be worried by this development, but keeps it to himself, continues to observe Laurel’s oldest nephew. Eric keeps glancing at Jorge, copying his posture, his expression, the look on his face eager and admiring.

Frank can’t remember noticing anything like that the night before, but he didn't really pay attention to Eric beyond making sure he didn't sneak Hector’s drinks, thinks Eric was furious for most of the night and sulking which probably distracted him from noticing anything further. He wonders if Laurel has noticed, thinks she probably hasn't or Eric would be sitting far closer to her, wonders what plans Jorge may have for his grandson or if it's entirely innocent and Frank’s just paranoid after all the information he’s been exposed to in the past twenty four hours. He thinks it's probably a good thing Eric lives hours away in Texas, thinks it's probably positive for everyone that Eric only sees his extended family a few times a year. He suspects it would be too, too easy for Eric to be taken in by his charismatic, commanding and fearsome grandfather, seduced by the status he demands both within his own family and almost certainly beyond it.

He taps Laurel on the shoulder as the priests ask them all to stand, directs her attention to her nephew; how he pops to his feet only when Jorge does, how he looks to how Jorge and Adrian both have their hands resting lightly on the back of the pew in front of them, how Eric rests his arms on the pew then too, resting his chin on the wood and turning his head back and forth to regard the two men flanking him before directing his attention forward to the priest.

Laurel watches Eric, watches her father and brother, who honestly don't even seem to notice Eric, and Frank sees her frown slightly, glance away. He gives her a questioning look and she shakes her head, refuses to meet his eyes. But she does reach her hand behind Marco’s back, extends it out for him to take. He run his fingers along the edge of the medical gauze, playing with a fraying edge, squeezes her hand slightly hoping it doesn't hurt her.

Marco glances back, stares at their joined hands and makes a face, rolls his eyes. “Gross,” he tells both of them, turning back around only after he directs long accusing stares at the two of them, as though they’ve violated some obvious social taboo. Which, Frank supposes, if you’re five, they probably have.

“Get back to me in ten years about that, ok buddy,” Laurel tells him with a smirk, dropping Frank’s hand for a moment to ruffle Marco’s hair, tickle his sides. The little boy frowns deeply, looking affronted. 

“Trust me,” Frank tells him, directing a cocky grin at Laurel over the boy’s head. “In ten years I bet you’ll give anything to have a girl hold your hand.”

Marco looks doubtful, scowls at Frank. “No way. Girls are disgusting.”

Frank chuckles lightly, Laurel turning her head away to disguise her grin. “Trust me on this one, Marco my man. Girls are awesome.”

Marco still looks suspicious though, like he thinks Frank is trying to sell him something.

“Hey,” Laurel tells him, knocking him lightly with her elbow. “Wasn’t it awesome that I let you touch my gross, puffy wound?”

He nods after a moment, tries to hide his grin by looking down.

“Tolja,” Laurel says smugly. “Girls are awesome. I bet Tio Hector wouldn't let you mess with his stitches.”

Marco peers down the pew at Hector, almost swaying on his feet now. “All the girls in at school are gross though. And Luna’s friends too,” Marco tells them, seemingly determined to get some agreement on this point.

Laurel hums. “Maybe, but you gotta admit some girls are cool too.”

“Sometimes,” he says after a moment as they all sit down again, arms crossed stubbornly as though that's as far as he will extend his agreement.

“Rey from Start Wars is cool, right?” Laurel prompts.

“Yeah, but Poe is cooler.”

“Poe?” Frank mouths, eyebrows raised.

Laurel gives a little shrug, rolls her eyes at him. “Poe is cool,” she agrees, nodding vigorously, “But can’t they both be cool? Just like Poe and Finn can both be cool.”

Marco nods seriously after a moment. “Yeah,” he admits. “They’re all cool.”

Laurel grins, nods back and gives him a little fist bump. “Awesome people are awesome, right bud?”

Marco giggles. “Awesome people are awesome.”

Frank gives her an affectionate look, rolls his eyes. “Way to go, princess. Giving him ‘my first feminist lecture.’”

Laurel laughs, tries to smother it behind her hand, disguise it as a cough. “Gotta indoctrinate them early,” she whispers to him with a crooked smile.

He thinks, suddenly, that yeah, _wow,_ he’s probably gonna have a little feminist kid someday, wonders what other parts of their personalities a kid of his and Laurel’s might inherit from them. He’s had the idle thought about what a kid of theirs might look like, but he’s never really wondered about what that kid might _be_ like, what they’ll be into, what they’ll hate, what weird little quirks will drive him and Laurel crazy, what might make them distinct among all other humans. But, it strikes Frank with sudden clarity, that any child of his and Laurel’s will almost certainly be a tiny feminist, that _that_ at least he will know, even if the rest will be a mystery. Cool, he thinks, unable to smother the smile that slides onto his face, that will be _so cool._ It makes him want a kid with her with an almost desperate longing, just to see what else he or she might inherit from Laurel. He wants to teach their hypothetical, future kid to call people misogynists or tools of the patriarchy, see if it makes Laurel laugh or frustrated, wants that future so badly it almost hurts.

“I knew you were part of the feminist agenda,” he tells her, trying to disguise the terrifying and stunning line his thoughts have taken with a joke.

Laurel grins again. “What gave it away?”

Frank rolls his eyes, thinks of saying something more, but Leo tugs at his sleeve.

“Where’s my mom?” Leo asks, though Frank breathes a sigh of relief that he doesn't seem particularly upset, more curious than anything.

“Uh, out in the car I think,” Frank tells him, sending Laurel a quick confirming glance.

Leo nods. “Ok.”

“You wanna put her in your picture?” Frank asks, trying to distract him. “Make her Princess Leia maybe?”

Leo gives him a look. “General Leia,” he corrects.

Frank tries to mimic him. “In my day, it was Princess Leia.”

Leo’s derisive look goes deeper and he catches Laurel’s eye roll. “Take it easy old man,” she tells him, laughing as they are instructed to stand again. He can’t be a hundred percent sure, but from what he remembers from the last time he was at Christmas Mass, he thinks they’re wrapping up, thankfully. He likes the two kids, they're fun and spunky, but it's hard to keep them quiet and occupied in a place like a church and he thinks they’re getting antsy, even with the distractions Laurel’s been plying them with.

Laurel must think so too, because when they sit she fishes another sheet of paper out of her bag, begins to fold the paper against her thigh. She works quickly, comes up with a little origami frog that she hands to Frank, gesturing with a nod for him to pass it to Leo. Marco, who has been watching her intently, eyes fixed on Laurel’s deft, quickly moving fingers, makes a small noise of protest. She removes two more sheets, gives one to Marco and begins folding the paper again, directing the movement of Marco’s hands with whispered instructions. He watches her, copies the folds and creases she makes with deep concentration, tongue peeking out from between his teeth.

Frank turns his attention back to Leo, plucks the little paper frog from Leo’s hands, sets it on his knee and pushes down on the frog’s back end, making it hop slightly.

Leo giggles, loud, hands clapping over his mouth when he realizes what he’s done. When he’s calmed, Frank presses on the frog again, sending it hopping into the space between his body and Leo's. He doesn't laugh this time, but the boy still grins wide, copies Frank's movements and send the paper frog skipping up and down the pew.

“Good thinking,” he tells Laurel, watching as she takes Marco’s paper, helps him make the creases tight and straight and even, showing him how to ensure the edges are sharp. He thinks Laurel’s probably well on her way to making sure Marco uses origami as a technique to distract and calm himself too.

“Where’d you learn origami anyway?” he asks, once she’s handed the paper back to Marco. He doesn't want to make assumptions, but south Florida doesn't really seem like a place with a terribly large Japanese community and he’s not sure how Laurel would find origami on her own.

“I had a Nisei friend in elementary school,” Laurel explains, continuing to slowly fold so that Marco can copy her movements, pointing out what corner he should start from, how he should direct his hands so the paper folds how it should. “I couldn't sleep at a sleepover and I think her mom just wanted to keep me quiet and distracted until morning. She gave me a book and some paper and walked me through a couple of simple ones. I actually think she showed me the frog first.”

“And the rest is history.”

Laurel grins shyly. “Not only is it great for impromptu engagement rings and distracting children in church, something about it calmed me down enough that I could fall asleep.”

He grins, tries not to give away that he knows that tidbit already from Hector. He wonders that he’s never seen her do origami for his nieces and nephews before, but then again, they’ve never really been put in charge of his siblings’ kids, never been asked to distract them for any length of time. It's always controlled chaos at his parents’, there’s never any kind of expectation that the littler Delfinos will be seen and not heard, or need to act like mini-adults. 

And, really, the same expectation applies at the local parish church where it's not uncommon to hear babies crying, see kids running down the aisles, crawling under the pews. Father Ricky seems to instinctively understand that his parishioners, every last one of them Irish or Italian, are going to be loud and boisterous and their many kids will be too, allows a certain level of low-grade disaster to hover over the church before he tries to settle everyone down. 

So yeah, silent, concentrated origami doesn't entirely seem like something Laurel’d ever have to employ where his family’s concerned. He thinks he might suggest it anyway next time they’re over at his folks’, might ask if she can whip up some other animals like maybe sharks or tigers or even dogs, because Frank thinks if he has to listen to the video game soundtrack for MarioKart one more time he’s probably gonna do something stupid.

Marco nudges him then, urgently. “Look what I did Frank!” he says, trying to keep his voice a whisper, failing pretty epically.

Marco’s beaming, proud and excited, holding his little paper frog gently in the center of his palm.

“Awesome,” Frank tells him honestly, pressing against the frog’s backside and making it hop slightly, again. He can’t help himself. For a seven year old using crumpled printer paper, Marco’s done a pretty good job of things, his edges are crisp, the paper only slightly mangled. And, at the end of the day, it's recognizably a frog, and it kept Marco quiet and distracted for ten minutes, which Frank’s pretty sure is the only thing that matters. “You gonna let Tia teach you more animals?”

Marco nods quickly, smile radiant. “She said she’d show me a fox after church.”

“Awesome,” he says again. “Good job man.”

Marco takes his discarded pen, begins to color on the frog, drawing eyes and what Frank’s gonna assume are warts.

Laurel passes him the frog she made with a coy little grin. “You want one too?”

He raises his eyebrows, teasing, tucks the frog into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Thanks.”

His fingers brush against something else as he deposits the frog, the sharp edge of heavy paper. As he tucks the frog in further, Frank pulls the paper out distractedly. Oh. He’d transferred the business card that morning from the pocket of his dirty slacks, decided to keep it on hand, figuring that keeping it close was likely a much safer move than leaving it floating around the Castillo’s home. All it takes it one glance at the card to leave him cold. Douglas H. Barrow. _Fuck._

And then Frank has the sudden startling awareness that in all the chaos of the previous evening, he overlooked something truly fundamental. He’s not really sure how to phrase it to her now, how to let Laurel know; so that guy your dad asked me to kill, same one as sent a minion for a chat last night. But it's a fucking crucial piece of information, Frank’s not stupid or naïve enough to be able to ignore that, he knows he can’t keep it from Laurel and feels like an idiot for having forgotten it for so long. He wonders if she suspects, figures she probably does, has already made the connection without him.

But Frank’s gotta tell her anyway, gotta add that complication, that little fucking twist, to this Gordian knot of a shitty situation. He wishes he could just kill Barrow and be done with it, wishes that his death would just eliminate the entire damn problem, would shut the investigation down, get any heat off Laurel, keep her from feeling like she needs to come clean and topple the whole damn house of cards. He knows Barrow’s death won't do a damn thing, but half considers offing Jorge instead, thinks _that_ death might actually do everyone some good.

Frank smothers that thought before he allows it to get any further, killing Jorge may simplify things, but it will not improve the situation. It will almost certainly bring an entire cartel down on his head, which objectively cannot be called an improvement in any way. And, he decides, unless Laurel tells him to take care of it, he can’t take that death from her, it's not his choice to make. If anyone deserves to say when Jorge Castillo lives or dies, it's Laurel. And she won't, because well, it may be a hard choice to decide to turn your dad in, but it's an impossible choice to decide to kill him.


	32. Chapter 32

The interminable Christmas Mass winds down soon after Frank finds Barrow’s card. Communion starts and there’s a brief scramble among the assembled members of Laurel’s family as they try to decide who will go up and partake and who will remain with the kids.

Hector, of course, volunteers to remain behind, but since only Eric has had his first communion, that will leave him in charge of the three little ones, and both Colleen and Laurel look skeptical at this prospect, especially because he’s sitting in the pew like he’s been glued there, glassy eyes staring, unseeing, into the middle distance.

“You go,” Laurel tells her sister-in-law, with a long glance at Hector that sets a frown scoring deep lines into her face. “I can stay here with Hector and the kids.”

Colleen looks tempted, and a little guilty, glancing furtively and longingly up towards the front of the church where the line is forming. Frank wants to assure her that Laurel really isn't _that_ religious, will probably not be too shook up about skipping communion. But he figures if that’s not a conversation Laurel’s comfortable having with Colleen, he’s not going to bring it up like an idiot.

“I’ll go fast,” Colleen tells her, already starting for the communion line, following after her husband and Jorge and Elena and Eric, strutting behind them proudly like a king. Frank wonders if it's his first Christmas communion, figures it probably is since Marco hasn't has his first communion yet. “We’ll switch places and you can go when I’m done.”

Laurel smiles tightly, rolls her eyes at Colleen’s retreating back, nudges Frank. “You can go too. I can handle these three.”

“Nah,” he tells her. “I’d rather wait with you.”

She gives him a pleased smile. “Communion always makes me feel guilty for being such a bad Catholic,” she whispers, watching the growing crowd.

“You’re not a bad Catholic,” he assures her. “Just a busy one. I’m a bad Catholic.”

Laurel raises her eyebrows. “What’s the difference?”

“You at least try to go every couple of months. I’d rather go for brunch.”

Her eyes roll. “Brunch _is_ the best meal of the week.”

“And it's best on Sunday's,” Frank adds with a smirk.

“We can try to do brunch before our flight if you want,” Laurel suggests. “Hector will know the best places in Miami. Or we could chance it here with the mimosa housewives.”

Frank scoffs. “I get enough of that with prom queen.”

Laurel shoots him a look, tries to appear stern around the grin that works its way onto her face. “Don't call her that.”

“She was though,” he insists. “I don't see what's wrong with the name.”

“She was also valedictorian. You don't call her that.”

Frank shrugs. “Too many syllables.”

Laurel snorts, rolls her eyes. “Plus, don’t act like you don't love going to brunch with her.”

Frank flashes her a crooked grin. “She really is the perfect brunch companion. She turns it into an art form.”

Laurel scoffs, then turns her focus to the two boys. “You guys still doing ok?”

They nod their heads in unison, barely looking up, before they go back to what looks to Frank like fighting with the paper frogs, pretending they’re engaged in some kind of stylized wrestling match.

Luna, however, is still positively glued to her book, Frank doesn't think she even realizes the service is over.

“You think we’re gonna have to hook her up to an IV to keep her fed until she finishes?” Frank asks, inclining his head towards the girl.

Laurel laughs. “Nah, I’m going to take it away from her soon. I’ll do Nessa a favor. Make her save it for the plane.”

Luna looks up, blinks owlishly at Laurel before fixing her with an angry glare. “No,” she tells her aunt fiercely. “It's my book and you can't do take-backs.”

Laurel scowls. “I _can_. You can't read all afternoon Lu, we have dinner later.”

“Mommy always says I _should_ read,” Luna says imperiously.

A smile works its way onto her face, almost against her will, Frank can see Laurel trying to smother it into a frown. “Yeah, you should. But you also need to spend time with your family. Especially on Christmas.”

Luna groans. “I don't think I like you anymore _Tia_ Laurel.”

Laurel looks almost hurt, her smile flees her face and her eyes go hard, a sudden stiffness in her limbs. “I’m not taking it away yet,” she tells Luna coldly. 

Luna huffs and Frank can see Laurel struggle not to say something snarky. He’s not sure he’d be able to, he's a wiseass through and through even when it comes to small children. He thinks he’d probably point out that Laurel’s probably the best relative Luna’s got, that she should be pretty grateful that Laurel gave her such a good present, but he doesn't. Because well, he feels a little silly and a little guilty yelling at a child in church. Plus, Laurel’s looking significantly less upset; the two boys trying to explain to her in hushed whispers what exactly their strange game entails.

Jorge, Elena and Eric come back soon after that, Adrian evidently having waited with Colleen. Frank tries not to snicker when Jorge glances down at Luna, narrows his eyes at his granddaughter.

“Luna, _niña_ , what are you reading?” he asks her, innocently enough, but Frank can sense the danger behind his words, can feel Jorge turn his full focus to the girl.

“Matilda,” she tells him absently, barely looking up.

“Luna,” he says again. “Why don't you put the book away.” Frank hears nothing that sounds like a suggestion in his words, hears the heavy command, clipped and controlled.

She looks up then, watches Jorge for a moment, sets her book beside her gently without complaint or any noise of protest. He sees so much of Laurel in that little glance, the gears turning behind her eyes; judging, weighing and assessing the situation, testing the air and taking it all in. He can see the way she, like Laurel, tries to sense the intentions behind the words, what is going on under the surface. He wants to tell her it's not necessary, that she’s too young to be so cautious, so hyper-aware, wants to ask Laurel how old she was when she realized she could learn more from the details, from glances and gestures and tone than from words themselves.

“Good girl,” Jorge tells her, but there is still a thread of cold anger flashing behind his eyes. Frank thinks of a snake, coiled and ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Laurel flicks her eyes between the two of them, watching without comment, mouth tight, noticing everything. Frank feels a little bad for Luna, the now-sullen slump of her shoulders, the little huff of boredom she almost immediately gives out. He pulls the third paper frog out of his waistcoat pocket, careful to keep Barrow’s card safe inside, and hands it to Luna with a lopsided smile.

She gives him a careful smile, looks half suspicious, but takes it anyway, turning it over to look carefully at it, studying the creases and folds. “It's a frog,” she tells Frank.

“I know it's a frog,” he replies.

“How'd you do it?” she asks, as though the question is a natural progression from her first statement.

“Laurel did,” he sys her, watching Luna’s eyes flick to her aunt, flick to the frog, as though appraising whether she likes the frog enough to take back her earlier comments. “I’m sure she’d teach you.”

Luna ignores that comment with a frown and Colleen soon returns, trades places with Laurel and they go join the rapidly shortening communion line.

“Is it bad I think a six year old’s kind of a bitch?” Laurel asks as they inch forward. “I feel bad for her, but she can be a little shit.”

Frank shrugs, doesn't think he should be wading into this conversational quicksand, doesn't think it's his place at all to pass judgement on a kid who he’s not related to, not yet. “She’s been pretty miserable since she got here,” is all he says, trying to keep his voice flat and neutral, any judgment free from his voice.

“And intent on making everyone else miserable too,” she mutters, frowning deeply, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don't know what Nessa’s gonna do about her.”

“There’s always boarding school,” he suggests wryly, watching Laurel’s bemused eye roll.

They step forward again, finally get to the front of the line, take the wafer and the wine, and head back to the rest of Laurel’s family.

Jorge is chatting animatedly with an older man, slim and white haired when they get back to the pews.

“Laurel,” Jorge calls when he sees her approach, gesturing that she should come join him.

Frank sees Laurel tense slightly, sees the slight narrowing of her eyes, but she approaches anyway.

“You remember Eli Osuna, _mija_?” Jorge asks as she moves to shake the man’s hand. “My attorney.”

Laurel nods. “Good to see you again,” she tells him, though there is caution in her voice, in her smile, but Frank thinks he may be the only one that sees it.

Eli nods, smiles. “And in much better circumstances this time,” he says, as though the two of them are sharing some kind of inside joke.

Laurel’s jaw tightens and Frank watches her hands clench into fists. So, no, he thinks, decidedly not a joke.

“Your dad’s been telling me you’re in law school now,” he continues, barreling on in good-natured oblivion, not noticing the sudden drop in the temperature of the room, Laurel’s raised hackles. “I must assume that our last meeting had something to do with it. Where do you go?”

“Middleton,” Laurel answers shortly.

Eli hums. “A very good school,” he tells her, sounding impressed, but also like he’s passing judgement, as though Laurel wasn't aware that Middleton is one of the best law schools in the country. “How are your grades?”

Laurel’s eyes flick to her father as she answers. “They’re alright,” she says noncomittally, crosses her arms over her chest.

The man laughs. “I suspect that’s an understatement. What kind of work are you looking for when you graduate?”

“Criminal defense.”

Eli winks, chuckles. “So I did have something to do with it, then?”

Laurel frowns. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“She had a job with a woman up there, her professor,” Jorge cuts in then, voice like iron as he shoots daggers at Laurel, angry and disappointed that she’s screwing up the informal interview he conjured up for her. “She’s very famous.”

“Annalise Keating,” Laurel clarifies through clenched teeth, her smile brittle now.

“Keating?” Eli’s smile slips just for a moment. Good, Frank thinks, he’s heard of her, knows how dangerous Annalise is. He thinks maybe, watching Eli’s eyes widen, his smile turn panicked, that he’s realizing just how thoroughly he’s underestimated Laurel too. She’s not some clueless law student struggling to find a direction, settle on a specialty, figure out how to actually practice law and not just study it. “She’s probably the most famous criminal defense attorney practicing right now. She’s brilliant of course, and ruthless. I hope she didn't teach you too much or you’ll put me and quite a few others out of business.”

Laurel makes a vague noise, gives a little shrug.

He just smiles indulgently, patronizingly. “Well, I’m no Annalise Keating, but I’m probably one of Florida’s better attorneys. Let's see if I can be of assistance to you again. Do you have anything lined up yet?”

Laurel smiles politely and Frank can see her consider mentioning her newly acquired PD job, decide against it. “I’ve got some feelers out,” she says flatly. “Hoping for something with the PD’s office.”

Eli laughs, loud, as though Laurel’s told some hilarious joke. His humor evaporates when he sees Laurel’s cold state. “With a degree from Middleton and Annalise Keating on your resume you could go anywhere, you know.”

“I know,” Laurel tells him shortly, clearly angry.

Eli blinks rapidly, clearly not anticipating the turn the conversation has taken. “If you'd like, I’d be willing to show you around my firm, introduce you to some local attorneys. If you’re any good I might give you a job myself. I always like attorneys who know the wrong side of the justice system firsthand.”

“Thanks,” Laurel says shortly. “But I’m planning on staying in Pennsylvania. My dad didn't mention that part, did he?”

Eli’s smile freezes on his face, turns into a grimace, eyes sliding to Jorge, now glaring furiously at his daughter. “He didn't.”

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time then,” she says, giving him a small forced smile. “I appreciate the offers, and of course your assistance with my bout of legal trouble, but I’m going to be staying up north.”

Eli makes a little noise, Frank can’t tell whether it's agreement or protest. “If you change your mind, give me a call. I think you’re going to be a formidable attorney. You were halfway there ten years ago, you know,” he tells her, again giving her another indulgent smile. “With most kids, biggest part of my job is just being there to tell them to shut the hell up, but you had that down. Nearly knew what questions to ask too; that’s probably the hardest thing to learn. And I expect Keating took care of that.”

Laurel makes a little choking sound, clearly wishing Eli would stop, but he just barrels on. “Your brother, on the other hand,” he says, chuckling as they both glance at Hector, still sitting stiff and motionless halfway down the pew, as though any movement, however slight, will make him positively ill. “Well, he’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“That's why I want to go to the PD’s office,” Laurel tells him, sounding like she’s confessing something, like her words are slipping from her mouth against her will. “To do what you did for Hector. For kids who's parents don't have millions.”

He shakes his head, mouth quirking like he wants to argue, decides against it. “Good for you, kid. But by the time you get to them, they’ll already be screwed.”

“Doesn't mean I can't help them.”

He gives her a look, sad and pitying. “Sometimes it does. You'll figure that out eventually.”

Eli turns to Jorge, and they shake hands jovially, complete with back slaps. Frank thinks if Eli Osuna is on retainer for Laurel’s dad, yeah, they probably are on pretty friendly terms, Jorge probably owes Eli for quite a few legal wins, probably pays him handsomely for those saves. Jorge still looks furious, seems to say something in a low voice to Eli, claps him on the shoulder.

“Well,” Eli tells Laurel, turning his attention back to her as he begins to walk away. “If you change your mind about any of it, give me a call. We do pretty decent pro bono hours thanks to your dad here sending us some of his boys when they can't pay.”

Laurel looks like she wants to argue, wants to have the last word, but seems to think better of it, seems to catch herself, recognizing the hopeless, losing battle that will inevitably ensue if she proceeds on.

Mass finishes up within a few minutes, and after a hurried text to Vanessa to wake her up and alert her to the impending arrival of her kids, he and Laurel and Colleen and Hector each take a child’s hand, escort them to the rented Escalade, finding Vanessa looking much less worse for wear. Laurel jumps into the car, helps buckle Leo and Luna into their safety seats while Vanessa peppers her with questions about _Orange is the New Black._

Frank leans against the car next to Hector, morosely directing glares at his sisters.

“You feeling any better?” Frank asks as Hector’s eyes slide his way, crossing his arms and hugging his elbows as though scared of touching Frank.

“I’ll feel better when I can start drinking again,” Hector mutters, rolling his eyes as though it's a joke, but Frank hears an air of desperation in his voice that he thinks might bely the truth.

He wants to say something to Laurel, ask if her brother is really ok, if he’s always like this or if being back home, encountering Jeff Engle, is making things worse, exacerbating a problem he’s generally able to keep under wraps. He doesn't want to make assumptions about Hector, but he has a sneaking suspicion that his issue is not the same as Laurel’s; because while Laurel is more uncomfortable and enraged and sad in this place, clearly wishes she was elsewhere, he thinks Hector has a desperation, a raggedness that Laurel lacks.

She is at least functioning, Frank thinks, trying to get through the weekend, make it as best she can, whereas it seems to him that Hector wants nothing more than oblivion, to wake up in next week with no memory of Christmas at his childhood home, and is willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that. He wants to ask Laurel about his self-destructive tendencies, whether it's something she should be concerned about, whether it's something he’s always had, whether Christmas is making things worse or just being used as an excuse. He really, really doesn't want to go accusing Hector of alcoholism if this is just his yearly coping strategy, though Frank has a sneaking suspicion that's probably not it at all; not with the amount Hector is able to put away and still stay upright, not with what he can see is a clearly frayed hold on his past, his relationships with his family.

Frank thinks maybe he will broach the subject later, after they’ve sorted out what exactly Laurel plans to do about her father, since doing nothing seems to be out of the question for her, will see what her take on Hector’s alcohol consumption is, whether it's always been this way, whether it's new or worse or something Frank should just butt the hell out of and mind his own damn business.

Laurel pops out of the car then, waves at her niece and nephews as they drive away, and comes at joins them at the Civic.

“Give me your keys,” she tells Hector, hand out.

He gives her a look, eyes at his feet, mouth twisted in a grimace.

“You really up for driving?” she asks rhetorically, because Hector continues to look pretty far from being fine.

Hector’s mouth quirks. “Not really, but I don't think you should be driving while Viked.”

Laurel laughs, holds her hand out. “I haven't taken any Vicodin, Hec. Relax.”

“Then what the fuck was that ridiculous thing with dad and his goon?” Hector asks, now frowning deeply, lifting his eyes briefly to glare at his sister.

She rolls her eyes. “That? That was dad trying to strong arm me into a meeting with Eli Osuna where he will seduce me into joining up with him by showing me the obscene amounts of money I could make and the glamorous cases I could take on making the government look like idiots and assholes.”

“That's not what I meant, L,” Hector says, voice carefully edged now. “Why the fuck didn't you just politely express interest and then never call him back or something. Why do you always have to throw it in dad’s face?”

“Because he always thinks he can find something that’ll lure me back. And if I even crack the door open he’ll think he’s got me.”

“He's never gonna stop, you know that right?” he asks her, pityingly, giving her a knowing look.

She nods. “So I can't let him think there's a chance.”

“You know the definition of insanity, right, L?” he kicks his toe against the Civic’s tire, crosses his arms and glances away from her. “Doing the same thing and expecting different results. That's you two.”

Laurel just shrugs, but there’s a furious edge to her gestures. “Then what do I do?”

“I don't know, but not this,” he fishes in his pocket for his keys, holds them out to Laurel. “You, coming here, coming _home_? Every time it makes him think there’s a chance. To him, you being here is you already cracking the door.”

Laurel frowns deeply, takes the keys from her brother. “So what, I’m supposed to cut _him_ off?”

“I don't know,” Hector says again, sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “But you can't keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Well, one way or another things are gonna have to change,” she says with weary bitterness as she edges around him to the driver’s side door.

“That's not what I meant,” he tells her, something desperate edging into his words.

Laurel says nothing, just gets behind the wheel as her brother slides into the backseat. Frank frowns, gets into the car beside Laurel.

“That's not what I meant, L,” he says again, and Frank thinks he hears a crack in Hector’s voice.

“I know,” she says, flashing him a small, sad smile in the mirror. “But I think I have to.”

He sighs, leans his head back against the headrest as though he's praying or summoning strength. “Please be safe, ok?”

Frank catches Hector's eye in the mirror, gives him a look and something like understanding passes between them. “And you keep her safe Frank,” Hector tells him. “Keep her from doing anything truly stupid or dangerous.”

Frank nods, holds Hector's gaze.

Good, Frank thinks, he has an ally, someone who will help him protect Laurel from herself, will keep her from killing herself over some hollow victory, some meaningless moral stand. He has no idea how they’re going to convince her to take a different path, choose a different direction, to choose herself over everyone else, but at least, Frank thinks, he has Hector now to help.

That has to be worth something.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this thing's now hit over 100K words which is insane and it's also kind of honestly a little insane and wonderful that anyone's even reading this still and willing to trust that this isn't just a never ending fic that maybe goes nowhere (I promise it isn't, really...).   
> But I'm like 99% sure I'm completely done and happy with it (aside from maybe one last tiny tweak) and it won't exceed 200K words (promise) so it's definitely over halfway done now, and kind of, sort of, maybe on the downhill stretch. And since it's done I'll likely be posting a little more frequently, as long as I can find the time, because I don't have to worry about losing inspiration and having the posted chapters catch up to the written chapters. So yeah...

The ride back to the house is quiet, Hector quickly falling asleep in the backseat. Frank takes Laurel’s hand at lights, plays with the edges of her gauze bandages, tickles her wrist until she gives him a look and tries to pull her hand away with an annoyed glare that quickly turns into a tired half-smile.

“When’s dinner?” he asks as they approach the house.

“Usually not till late,” she says vaguely. “I think Paola said invitations were for three.”

“So we have some time?”

Laurel nods, puts the car in park.

“Enough for tiny bikinis?” he asks, cocky grin sliding onto his face. “You did promise.”

She rolls her eyes, shrugs innocently as she gets out of the car. “Maybe.”

But then Frank sees Jorge approach the car, and he knows he has more urgent things to worry about than Laurel in next to nothing.

Elena, waiting patiently by the front door, has pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead, appears to be chewing nervously at her thumbnail, her other hand clutching at the necklace at her throat and for a long moment, all Frank can think of is how she suddenly, for maybe the first time reminds him of Laurel, reminds him of her own nervous habits. She glances between Jorge and Laurel for a long moment, and Frank can see her eyebrows pull together, her concerned frown, mouth tight and lips thin. But then she turns and goes into the house, not sparing a backwards glance for her daughter. Frank can’t decide whether to be angry or heartbroken at her cowardice, at her apathy. He wants to tell Elena her daughter deserves so much better, deserves a mother who feels something, anything, who actually gives a shit. He reassures himself that it's ok, that Laurel has his mother, and his mother loves her maybe more than she loves him, her son. He tries to convince himself that’s good enough, that it's all she will need, that there won't be a gaping, raw wound left behind. Tries, and fails.

Hector edges out of the backseat, gives Laurel a long, searching glance, though he keeps his distance from her, tries to skirt the obvious fallout zone, tries to remain out of Jorge’s line of sight. Laurel catches Hector’s eye, just briefly, barely longer than a blink, and nods minutely.

Frank thinks Hector might sigh, certainly his shoulders sag with something like resignation, and he too, heads towards the house.

Frank remains, doesn't think that Laurel should be left alone, not with Jorge looking mere minutes away from violence, doesn't think he can bring himself to leave her.

Jorge strides up to the Civic, face red and angry. Laurel turns and faces her father, stands and squares her shoulders, face blank, clearly prepared for a fight.

“What were you thinking, Laurel?” Jorge asks her, voice low, moving to grip her arm tightly. “Showing such disrespect to me, to my associate?”

“How was I disrespectful?” she asks, a challenge in her voice.

“Eli offered to guide you, to help you find work and you insult him, throw that offer in his face like it means nothing.”

“It _does_ mean nothing,” she hisses. “I don't want to work for him and I don't want to work in Florida.”

“But you heard him, you can still work for those who can’t pay. I will send my men to you if that’s what you feel that you need.”

Frank can see Laurel’s jaw working, sees something dangerous flash in her eyes. She has the look of an untrained boxer about to take a punch, worried and already flinching away from the pain she knows is coming. But she barrels on anyway, knows that taking the punch will free up a few seconds in which she can strike back as long as she can stay upright. “You mean,” she says, staring down her father with an unblinking stare. “The guys you want me to defend, not the guys you want to throw under the bus for the good of the business.”

“ _Mija_ ,” Jorge says warningly.

“No dad,” she tells him, ice behind her words. “I’d really like an explanation. Why some of your guys get Eli and some of them wind up with a PD about seven minutes out of law school. How exactly do you decide that?”

“I don't think it's any of your business how I run mine,” Jorge tells her, voice raising a degree or two. Frank can hear the tension in Jorge’s voice, the tightness in his vocal cords sending his pitch a degree or two lower, can hear how he struggles to keep it from snapping, how any loss of control will send his anger surging. His hands are loose fists, Frank notices, not tucked tight together like he’s trying to keep himself from hitting something, but relaxed, ready to swing at any time. Frank wants to pull Laurel backwards, wants to call the fight, declare Jorge the winner before the round even starts.

“I think it is,” she counters, voice hot, mocking. “If you’re asking me to join the business, or join a firm where I’m representing your people, I need to know you won't throw me under the bus to save someone more important.”

“If you join me, it will be as an subordinate, an employee,” he tells her, his words bladed. “And you will not question my decisions, do you understand?”

She smiles, wide and feral. “I’m never going to do that, dad,” And then her voice slips from mocking to something that might just hit on pity, glance away to something darker that Frank’s not sure he even knows how to quantify. “And even if I wanted to, you just want to use me as a tool to get more money, protect that money.”

“And to protect _you_ ,” he tells her, voice black, threatening. “Don't forget that.”

“I don't,” Laurel says, and the edge goes out of her voice, a balloon deflating, suddenly and instantly. “ _That_ I never forget.”

“You certainly act ungrateful for all I must still do to protect you.”

“I don't want what your protection means,” her voice is pleading, practically begging her father to understand.

“You think I am some monster Laurel?” he asks, his fury a sharp contrast to Laurel’s weary sadness. “You think what I do is because I enjoy it? I do it because I must, because I have to protect what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours,” she insists, and there's a note of frustration that creeps into her words. “I don't want what your protection means. You know that.”

“You’d rather be hurt again?” Jorge growls. “Because without my protection that is what will happen. _You_ know _that_.”

“It's not true,” she tells him frowning deeply, voice barely a whisper. “I was only ever hurt because of _you_.”

The two of them stare each other down for a long moment, the air between them crackling with tension. Frank thinks there is no other way for the confrontation to end than by the powder keg finally igniting, the fuse has already been lit. Because he thinks Laurel has gone to a place she can’t come back from, can’t apologize for; she’s said the thing she knows will send a knife into her father’s chest, mortally wound him, she’s said something that may be true, but it has to remain unsaid, it's too corrosive, too damaging to be said out loud.

Frank thinks he’s right when he sees Jorge’s face. He looks stricken, shocked and furious, his face colors deep red and Frank can see his eyes widen, nostrils flare. He thinks Jorge may tremble with the effort it takes him not to strike her. 

“ _That_ I could've lived with, I _did_ live with it,” she says plaintively, as though she’s trying to take back what was said, find some point where she can appeal to her father. “I didn't blame you. But I can't live with what you have to do to keep it from happening again.”

The tension crackles between them, he thinks both of them might be weighing the advantages of bringing out their nuclear arsenals. But then Laurel sighs heavily, turns away and stalks towards Frank.

She has been taking this confrontation to the brink since they arrived in Florida, going right up to the edge and balking, afraid of what it will mean if she says something she cannot take back, says what her father cannot forgive her for. She’s been practically bursting with unsaid anger, sadness, resentment, trying desperately to keep it inside, but it's been bubbling up, boiling over. And then she backs away, the heat dies, briefly, only to surface again. He thinks the only way for things to end is for her to stop pumping the brakes, to just barrel through no matter the damage.

Laurel grabs his hand, pulls him away from car. “We’ll see you at dinner, dad,” she throws over her shoulder. “Unless you’re kicking me out of the house again.”

Frank glances behind him, can't not look. Jorge looks furious, takes a step forward as though he’s going to go after Laurel. 

“You would rather be killed, Laurel?” he calls out. If anything, Laurel’s words have made Jorge even more furious, as though she’s talking nonsense, simply trying to get him angry. Frank has to admit, he’s not sure he gets it either, not sure he’d honestly have much of a problem with whatever brutal acts must be committed to stay safe and alive, not sure he’s not on Jorge’s side on this one. “Is that what you want? Do you have some stupid death wish?”

Laurel throws up her hands, turns and glares at her father, though there’s a deep pain, a deep sadness in her eyes. When she speaks, she’s nearly gasping out her words, flinging them from her as though they physically pain her, as though they’re knives, cutting into her flesh as she speaks them. “What I _want_ is to not wake up hearing the catch of a trigger, wondering if I’m dead or alive. What I _want_ is to not think that I made things worse when I told you to keep Alain alive,” she tells him, voice even and deadly calm. And Frank really, really wishes Laurel’d be angry, upset, that she’d show some other emotion other than resignation, weariness, as though she’s not even sure why she’s bothering, why she's even telling her father, because she knows he’s not going to listen, not going to understand. But she continues anyway, like she can’t stop now that she’s started, like she doesn't even know what she’s saying, but will barrel on now until the truth is out.

“And what I _really_ want, dad, is to be brushing my teeth, studying, buying a cup of coffee and not be reminded of what happened. Every time I look at my hand, every time I touch something and I feel the scars there, I remember it. I’m lucky if I can go five minutes, five fucking minutes before I’m reminded again of what was done to me. I love you, but what you don't understand is that what you do to other people in the name of protecting me, that's what was _done_ to me. And I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”

Frank wants to take her hand, fall at her feet and apologize. Wants to ask her what he can do to make it ok, to make her forget. He wants to ask if she ever does. He doesn't know what it's like to live with to live with chronic pain, but he thinks that must be similar to what Laurel feels, wishes he could take that from her. He wonders if it's a constant ache following her tirelessly, or a sharp pain nipping at her heels when she pauses for breath. He doesn't know what he wants, doesn't know what he can do to make things better for her, doesn't think he can.

The expression on Jorge’s face is unreadable, blank. Frank doesn't know if he’s going to respond with words or his fists, if he’s going to hug Laurel or strike her. Jorge looks at his daughter for long, long moments, searching for something, though Frank has no idea what it may be. Laurel stands there, straight and unflinching, but her hands are balled into fists, ready, Frank thinks, to defend herself if needed. But then Jorge glances down, down at his shoes, comes to some decision, and turns away, heads back towards the backyard and the danger passes, evaporates into nothing.

Someday, Frank thinks, this tension, this corrosive combination of hate and love and resentment will boil over and one of them will suffer for it. He’s not entirely sure whether it will be Laurel or Jorge who comes out the loser, battered and bruised and defeated, but he knows eventually their skirmishes will develop into a full fledged war, complete with explosions and blood and casualties; the animosity runs too deep, the conviction that each of them is right, _righteous_. He hopes Jorge is incarcerated before that point, or that Laurel makes the seemingly sensible decision to cut her father out of her life completely.

Frank doesn't even know if either of those choices will be enough, he thinks that as long as both of them are upright, they will be locked in combat, trying to destroy the other with everything they can, everything they have, everything they are, willingly immolating themselves in the name of conquering the other, in the name of some Pyrrhic victory, thinking that will change things, make the other see things from their viewpoint, which Frank is almost certain is the only thing either of them really wants, and the only thing neither of them will ever, ever get.

Hector meets them just inside the door, apparently having eavesdropped on the conversation from the foyer.

“Don't do that,” Hector tells Laurel, pulling her sharply to the side, hand on her upper arm.

She turns, glares at him, but says nothing.

“You're an idiot,” he says, unexpected heat in his voice. “You still planning on turning him in, L? Don't fucking do it right after you make it clear you have major beef with him.”

“I’ve had beef with him since I was eleven Hec.”

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. “I don't make jail visits, L. And God, don't make me identify your body,” Hector frowns and swallows hard, Frank thinks he almost hears a catch in his throat, tight and low. “I can’t do that.”

“Whatever I do,” she tells him fiercely. “I’m not gonna let that happen.”

“How you gonna do that, huh?” he challenges, jaw clenched, still not willing to look at her, but some wild conviction staining his words. “How you gonna guarantee you’re ok through all this.”

“I’m gonna figure it out, I promise,” she tells him vehemently.

“You know what, L? You know what _I_ figured out? That you’re never gonna get one up on him, because it's not just him you’re taking on.”

“But I can stop _him_ ,” she insists.

“So what?” Hector asks, throwing his arms up in frustration. “There’s just gonna be some other asshole who steps into dad’s shoes. Maybe someone worse. Are you gonna blame yourself for them too?”

“I don't blame myself for him,” Laurel insists, though there’s an insincerity Frank thinks he hears in her voice, an attempt to disguise her true feelings.

“Yeah,” Hector tells her, mouth quirking. “You do.”

“I blame him for using me as cover for the shitty things he does.”

“Laurel,” he says warningly. “If it wasn’t you, it’d be me, or some other poor schmuck he uses as his excuse. Just cause he says he’s acting for you doesn't mean he is. He’s acting for himself and his bosses. And it doesn't mean it's your fault. He’s an asshole, and with or without you, he’s gonna be an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I can stop him,” she repeats again.

“You know who else could?” he asks sharply. “The fucking Feds. Let them do their jobs. Don't get yourself shot over some moral stand.”

“I won't get shot,” Laurel insists again. “But I have to do something.”

“No,” he tells her, finally looking up, meeting her eyes. “You fucking don't. Look, you’re worried that not doing something means you’re just as culpable, that his sins become yours if you do nothing. Well, you can do more good, make more of a difference in the big fucking universal calculus you’re so concerned about by not doing a damn thing about him, by staying safe and just defending your petty drug dealers and car thieves. That's what’ll clear your debt.”

Hector’s eyes track to Frank, plead with him for assistance.

“That the best revenge,” Frank adds beseechingly. “Letting yourself be happy, letting yourself not care about him.”

She scoffs at both of them.

“Let him kill who he wants, let him do it in your name for all it matters. It doesn't, because they’ll still be dead, Laurel. And you can do so much more good alive than you could by turning him in and putting yourself in the crosshairs.”

She frowns, eyebrows pulling together. “I just wish we’d stayed in Philly,” she says, and Frank can’t tell whether she’s admitted defeat, conceded their point, or is just refusing to debate it further because her decision is set, final. He hopes its not, hopes he can sway her somehow, convince her that the life they will have, together, the life they will have if she turns away from this self-destructive path, this path of revenge, will be worth it if she turns away. He hopes he can convince her that their life together is worth more than her desire for revenge. God, he hopes she loves him more than she hates her father.

“Yeah,” Frank sighs. “Me too.”

“If you're gonna be stupid,” Hector tells her with a flashing grin. “At least be smart about it, ok, L?”

She nods. “Promise.”

Hector returns the gesture, taking her elbow, holding up her left hand, turning it back and forth so she can't help but glance at it. “You walked out of a literal Mexican standoff, L, don't fucking throw that good luck away.”

She snorts, gives him a sidelong glance.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” she tells him, takes his hand in both of hers, squeezes it slightly. “I still owe you.”

Hector smiles softly, only looking slightly pained. “You do. You’re not allowed to throw your life away without my permission.”  
“I won't. I’ll get you both a plan you don't have to worry about.”

“Do you really blame him?” Hector asks softly. “For everything?”

Laurel sighs flatly. “I don't know who I blame.”

“You blame me,” he offers, eyes skittering to his feet as though he doesn't want to look up when he hears the truth, can't handle seeing Laurel condemn him.

“No,” she tells him. “Not really. You did the best you could.”

“I didn't though.”

She shrugs. “I don’t blame you anyway.”

“Then who?” Hector asks, as though the question matters. Frank thinks it's the stupidest question anyone’s ever asked, because blaming someone won't take back what's happened, won't fix Laurel or Hector or their relationship or their relationship with their father. What's done is done and blaming people, well, it's basically useless. “None of it would’ve happened if he was a dentist or an electrician.”

Laurel frowns deeply. “That’s true. But he’s not. And I _like_ my life, shitty parts and all.”

Hector gives her an incredulous look, clearly not believing her. “I’d probably trade my restaurant to get rid of the shitty parts.”

She smirks, dangerous and teasing. “You must not have Frank and his beard in your life.”

Hector laughs sharply, rolls his eyes.

Laurel catches Frank’s eye, smiles shyly, and he knows despite her efforts at humor, at diffusing the tension and hurt with a joke, she really means it. That she wouldn't take back her life, wouldn't trade what they have even if it made her life easier, gentler, made all the years of pain and hurt fade away. He hopes that means there’s a chance he can turn her away from her path of revenge, talk her into putting herself and her happiness first, convince her that she’s actually allowed to be happy and that she’s not responsible for the rest of the world. He hopes, but he’s honestly not sure. And that's the thing that worries him the most.  Because he's not sure anything he says is going to be enough.


	34. Chapter 34

“Hey,” Frank catches her arm as they go to follow Hector further into the house. “I need to tell you something.”

She can tell it's important without him needing to say anything, tucks her body close to his and waits.

“Not here though,” he tells her, watching her brow furrow and her little nod.

“I still have Hector’s keys,” Laurel suggests. “Do we have a sudden, urgent need to gas up his car?”

Frank nods. “I think that’d be the least we could do after borrowing it yesterday.”

“Ok.”

They head back to the car, Frank going to slip into the passenger’s seat. Instead, Laurel catches his hand before it reaches the door, grasps his wrist and stops him. She shakes her head, hands him the keys.

“You drive,” she tells him, slipping past him and into the passenger’s seat.

Frank goes around the car, settles behind the wheel and adjusts all the settings. When he’s finished, Laurel has positioned her body sideways in the seat, legs tucked up against her chest, watching him.

He waits until he's started the engine, pulled out of the driveway before he glances over at Laurel again.

“So?” she asks.

He sighs, tries to think of a good way to convey the information, fails. He knows he has to just come out with it.

“The guy your dad asked me to chat with?” he asks, running a tired hand through his beard.

She only nods.

“It’s Barrow.”

Laurel’s teeth clench and she takes a long, deep breath, an even longer exhale. “Ok.”

He wants to ask her what she's thinking, what it means to her, whether it changes anything. He wants to ask her what they do, because one way or another, Douglas H. Barrow, Special Agent, is probably not long for this world. He wants to ask if Laurel cares.

“Turn up here,” she tells him, voice flat, betraying nothing. “Left.”

“So what do we do about that?” he asks her after an excruciating moment of silence falls heavy between them.

“I don't know,” she tells him tiredly, wrapping her arms around her indrawn legs. “I honestly have no idea what to do.”

Frank is silent, waits for her to continue, turns and looks at her when he can.

“Hector’s right. Doing something will only make a difference to me. And maybe that's just selfish,” Laurel stares down at her hands, curled tightly around her legs. “I’m looking for revenge just as much as he is, and I need to own that. And maybe walk away.”

“And Barrow?” Frank prompts.

“He knows my dad’s after him, yeah?”

He nods. “Said that was why he was asking me to handle things.”

“Another left up there,” she tells him, pointing to an approaching light. Laurel hums as he makes the turn. “Then what does it matter?”

“I don't know,” he tells her honestly.

“Me either,” she rests her hands on her knees, palms up and stares at them for a long, long time. He wonders if she’s thinking about her scars, about how she got them; if she’s thinking about the new scar he knows she’s bound to have, now, on her other hand. Fingers and palm, he thinks it's somehow both fitting and disgusting all at once. “I don't know what to do.”

He gives her a questioning glance.

“Whether I owe it to myself, to Alain, to the universe, to stop him. Or whether I owe you and Hector to just let it go.”

“You owe it to yourself to walk away,” he tells her fiercely, grasping her left hand tightly in his. “The universe or whatever? Doesn't owe you shit. No one owes anyone anything, Laurel. You owe yourself, that’s it, and you owe yourself the chance to be happy, to have whatever kind of life you want.”

“Why?”

“Because what's the damn point if it's not to be happy? Why even bother? There’s so much shit in the world, so much that’ll try to make you miserable that why should you add to it? Why should you make it easy?”

“There are other things that matter,” she insists.

“No,” he tells her, certain. “There aren't.”

“What about making the world better?”

Frank shrugs. “If it makes you happy, yeah. But don't do something jut cause you think it’ll be a net karmic plus or something. Don't throw your life away because you think you owe someone else.”

“And why do I get that chance at not Alain?”

“I can't answer that and it doesn't matter. What matters is that you walked away, and you owe it to yourself to keep walking not to go back and ask for one more round of Russian Roulette.”

“Just be glad I walked out of the Mexican standoff?”

He nods. “Yeah. You’ll drive yourself crazy asking why. Don't bother. Just be glad you did and let yourself be happy. Ok?”

“That's too easy,” she tells him.

Frank stares at her incredulously. “It's the hardest thing in the world.”

She just raises her eyebrows, dares him to continue, to convince her.

“Being happy? With all the shit in the world, it's hard as hell. But you gotta keep on trying for it anyway. Otherwise you might as well just give up.”

“That's all there is to it?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, basically.”

Laurel snorts. “I think you're making this sound a lot easier than it is.”

“I am. But really, how much of being unhappy comes from other people, the shit they do, the shit you feel you gotta do for them. Be happy instead.”

“And what if being happy means I have to turn him in?”

Frank frowns. “Then do what you gotta do, babe. I told you, I’ll have your back whatever you decide.”

She just stares at him for a long, long moment, seemingly weighing his words, his intentions. “Why?”

“Because you make me happy. Just _you_.”

“Right at the light,” Laurel tells him flatly, seemingly ignoring his words. Frank’s not sure he wants to know what it means that she does, but he feels something pull tight deep within his chest and something like fear begin to settle in his gut. “There’ll be a station up on the left.”

He complies and as he’s pulling into the gas station, Laurel turns and looks at him, meets his eyes for just a second. “You're the thing that makes me happiest, too,” she tells him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just you.”

Frank pulls up to a pump, kills the engine.

“You know,” she tells him bitterly, as he goes to open the door. “The ironic thing is, if I was actually a lawyer, and my dad was a client, I’d probably have to turn him in.”

“Good thing you're not,” Frank tells her with a crooked smile.

“If there’s a reasonable certainty he’s going to hurt or kill someone and I find out, I’m supposed to hand him over. I should tell him _that's_ why I don't want to work for him.” Laurel’s grin goes ragged. 

“You really think it’d be that easy?”

She shakes her head minutely, still grinning, glances up at him and rolls her eyes. “It’s a fair bet my dad thinks legal ethics are for suckers.”

“It's a fair bet your dad thinks a lot of things are for suckers.”

Laurel makes a noise of agreement, pulls her door open as well. “You gas up. I’m going to make that call.”

Frank frowns, can’t help himself. He wants to ask her if she means it, if she really thinks that's the best idea, wants to tell her he’s pretty sure it isn't. Instead he just asks “Do you need his number?”

“No,” Laurel tells him, her frown matching his. “Couple of times a year he sends me a postcard. Asks for a call. I know that asshole’s number.”

“How did I miss that?” Frank asks, trying to recall if he ever saw any strange postcards addressed to Laurel cropping up in their mail.

“I usually just put then in a box and forget about them,” she shrugs. “Last one was from…Jesus,” she trails off, suddenly freezing, her face a rigid mask. “Jesus, fuck.”

“What?” Frank asks as Laurel’s breaths begin to come hard and fast. “What is it.”

“Taos,” is the only thing she says that Frank can understand, a string of rapid Spanish surrounding the word. She sounds angry, and confused and scared all at once.

“Laurel,” he says slowly, trying to catch her eye, taking her hand. “Gotta tell me in English. _Dime en inglés_.” He employs pretty much the only useful Spanish phrase he knows, and Frank’s still pretty sure he has it wrong, which is the only reason he thinks it gets Laurel’s attention.

It takes her a minute for her brain to catch up with his words, for a long minute she stares at him uncomprehendingly, blinking slowly at him. She’s still breathing hard, chest heaving, he can feel her hands shaking in his. When she finally speaks again her words are low, breathy with disbelief. “The last postcard was from Taos. Two months ago.”

“From Barrow?” he asks, not sure he believes himself, not sure what this means. If it's all a strange coincidence or if Barrow did the deed himself or if he knew what Jorge was up to all along.

She nods, brings her hand to her mouth, her scars stroking against her bottom lip. “From Barrow.”

“When did you get it?” he asks, words coming out all in a rush. “You remember when it was postmarked?”

Laurel bites her lip, shakes her head. “Before Halloween. Wes was with me. I think I was going to help him with his costume. He asked me if I had family in New Mexico,” she grins, quickly, but it flames, fades and dies on her lips, all in an instant. “I told him that was racist.”

“You think Barrow would remember when he sent it?”

She nods slowly. “Probably.”

“And a Google search would probably say when Alain and Nestor were killed.”

“Or we could ask Barrow himself,” Laurel says with a predatory grin, all sharp edges and an anger that reeks of hunger.

He gives her a sidelong glance. “You’re planning on trying to play a Fed, aren't you?”

She raises her eyebrows and her mouth stretches wide. “I am.”

“That sounds like a very, very stupid plan Laurel,” he tells her, voice a low warning growl.

“Whatever Barrow’s up to,” she says slowly. “He’s trying to play me. And I’m done with it.”

“You think you can take the entire FBI on?”

She gives him a dismissive shake of her head. “But I can figure out what he’s after. Figure out whether I should help him or help my dad or stay the hell out of it.”

“After all this, you really think you can stay out of it?”

Laurel sighs, deeply. “No. Staying out of it just means protecting him.”

Frank frowns too, he thinks their expressions must match, exhausted and weary and lost. “Is there anything in between?”

Her left hand goes to her lips, stroking her scars against her mouth. “I can't imagine there is.”

“Why is this so important to you, Alain’s death?” Frank prompts. He's held off as long as he can from asking, but he needs to know. He thinks it's the big gaping hole in his understanding; why Laurel has let her father’s deeds stand for so long, allowed them to continue without a second glance, why she now feels betrayed, feels he has gone too far and must be stopped.

She’s silent a long, long time, still brushing her fingertips against her lips. “Because I saved his life,” she lets out a long breath. “That sounds so fucking selfish, doesn't it, that I’m willing to go up against my dad because he didn’t listen to me.”  
Laurel runs her hand through her hair, pushing the strands away from her face, frowning deeply before she continues. “But it matters. I protected my dad from everyone, because I thought I was protecting someone who cares about me. And Alain, he proves that all that was a lie; that I was wasting my fucking time protecting someone who only cares about me when it suits him,” she laughs sharply. “That still sounds fucking selfish.”

Frank takes her injured hand, runs his thumb over her knuckles, the back of her hand. “It's not selfish.”

She laughs again, the sound more like a sob to Frank’s ears. “It is. But I just, the thought of what happened to me, of my dad doing that…” she shakes her head and trails off.

“It's hard to love someone who would willingly do that,” Frank finishes for her.

Laurel nods. “I know he’s a monster. But _that_ , god. I thought he’d love Hector and me enough to know what happened to us shouldn't happen to anyone. But love is weird.”

He just raises his eyebrows, waits for her to go on.

“He thinks what he does is for love, and maybe for him it is. He can't imagine that we wouldn't want revenge because that's what he wants. He acts out of love, but it's all wrong. And even so, I can’t help love him.”

“And that’s why you think you have to stop him?”

“I don't know,” she tells him, threading her hands into her hair; angry, at him, herself, her father, maybe the whole world. “It shouldn't matter why he does the terrible things he does. But it does. I can't have people killed in my name. I can't.”

“Enough that you have to do something? Stop him?”

Laurel nods, looks like she’s going to say something, but closes her mouth again, eyes sliding away from Frank’s as though she’s ashamed.

“And what if Barrow’s involved in all this?”

She’s silent again for a long, long time, until Frank’s not sure she even heard the question, even has the words to answer it. Her eyes are fixed somewhere on the floor. “Then I’ll find out.”

“And then?” he prompts. “What’re you gonna do if Barrow had something to do with it?”

“Then I’ll stop him too,” she vows. “If he knew and let it happen.”

“You see pretty confident about that plan.”

Her mouth quirks at the edges. “They’re both looking for an excuse to destroy each other. I’ll just hand them the matches.”

“I’m with Hector on this one,” Frank tells her. “Be safe and be smart.”

She grasps his hand, squeezes his knee. “I will, you know me. I’ll text Oliver, see if he’s got a free hour he can use to dig anything up. Anything that would suggest who’s involved, just what’s really going on.”

Frank gives her a searching look. “He’s gonna hack a bunch of federal databases on Christmas for you?”

Laurel shrugs, her grin turning slanted, edged. “Nothing like that. I’ll just ask him to look up Alain’s parole files, see how he managed to get to New Mexico without his P.O. noticing. See if he can get any hits on purchases, figure out when Barrow made it out to New Mexico. Easy stuff. And Oliver’ll probably be happy to do it. Apparently Connor’s family is intense and he needs alone time.”

Frank raises his eyebrows at that little detail.

Her smile goes teasing. “I know right? Apparently they wear Christmas sweaters and drink eggnog and it's like some Norman Rockwell idealized fever dream.”

He laughs. “No wonder you and Hair Gel are never gonna get along.”

Laurel shrugs. “Luckily I like Oliver and Michaela, so he gets a couple points for who his friends are and I’m able to half stand being around him in a group.”

She pulls the door again, slips out of the car. Frank sits there for a long moment, sighs heavily and watches in the rearview mirror as Laurel stalks across the parking lot to a rusted, dented pay phone. She doesn't even hesitate before picking up the phone, punching in the number she memorized long ago. Frank wonders whether that memorization was deliberate, if it was because Laurel wanted to have it available at all times if she ever decided she needed it, or accidental, worn into her brain like grooves through repeated exposure.

He watches her stand there, lean her shoulder against the brushed metal of the pay phone hutch, turns her body towards the phone, body hunched as though she’s trying to block out the world. He runs his hand through his beard, forces his eyes away from Laurel and pops the gas tank.

Frank positions himself to watch her as he begins filling, back against the car. He watches as she says something quick and clipped into the phone, not more than two or three sentences, and drops the receiver down, ending the call. He thinks she glares at the phone as she turns away, comes over to him, slumps against the side of the car next to him with her arms crossed over her chest. Laurel angles her body into his, leans into him, letting their sides brush, just slightly. He wants to take her into his arms, crush her to him and never let her go.

He just raises his eyebrows at her, glances at her from the corner of his eye, waits for Laurel to speak.

“I left a message,” she tells him, slanting into him even further as though she too craves the contact of their bodies.

“I figured,” he says, knocking his shoulder lightly against hers because he doesn't think she will let him hold her.

“Told him to meet me tomorrow at a coffee shop downtown. Outdoor table at eleven.”

“Smart,” he tells her nodding. “You think he’ll show on that notice? Tomorrow’s Saturday. And the day after Christmas; he might not even be in town.”

“He’ll show,” she assures him. “It’ll forward to his cell. After that stunt last night; he’ll be around in case I take the bait.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “You sure about that?” he asks doubtfully.

“We’ve had ten years to get to know each other. He’s gonna show.”

“So,” he asks her. “You want me at another table? Across the street?”

“I want you with me,” Laurel clarifies with a little shake of her head, threading her fingers through his as though that will be enough to keep him with her, keep them joined through anything, everything. 

“Laurel,” he begins.

“You’re not backup,” she cuts him off, eyes flashing. “We’re partners.”

“I know,” he tells her, turning to meet her gaze, grazing his thumb against the back of her hand. “But I can still be your backup.”

“I don't need backup,” she says. “I need you with me.”

“You got it,” he says. He’d agree to anything she asked, always. He means it when he says they’re partners, always, through everything. Even when Laurel doesn't always believe him, doubts or questions him because she’s so used to being let down, being the only one she can count on. She trusts him so much more than she did when they first got together, knows now that she can ask him for more than to borrow his shirt when she gets cold at night, can count on him to do more than deliver her forgotten laptop charger to the library at 3:00 a.m., knows that he will come through. Frank’s still not sure if she trusts him 100%, completely and totally, trusts him the way he trusts her, but he thinks she’s close, closer than she was, and closer than he ever hoped she might be, when he first met her, suspicious and closed off and wary. “You think he’ll have backup?”

Laurel nods. “He’ll be recording, too, or trying,” a quick smirk flits across her face. “I picked a busy street.”

“You’re good at this,” he tells her, flashing her a proud, affectionate smile out of the corner of his mouth. “You should forget about the law thing and we can be fixers together.”

She grins, briefly squeezes his hand. “No way. But if I ever turn into Annalise you’re welcome to a job.”

“Only if I don’t have to stop sleeping with you when you’re the boss,” he smirks.

“Don’t worry,” she assures him, smoothing her palm down his exposed forearm, catching his hand in hers. “Sexual favors’ll be a job requirement.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gearing up for the shit-show that's gonna be X-mas dinner, y'all...

“Ok,” Laurel says as they pull back up to the house. “I think I’ve got it.” She talks around the pen cap stuck between her lips, studies the sheet of paper she’s been intently doodling on and passes it to Frank once he’s killed the engine.

“The Castillo family cheat sheet?” he asks, taking the proffered paper, giving it a once over.

She nods, capping the pen and tucking it back into the glove compartment. “Really, though, just be nice to my _Abuela_ and don't say anything to _Tio_ Miguel that you wouldn’t say to my dad. And stay away from Hector and Enrique when they get into the tequila.”

“I’m always nice to _abuelas_ ,” he tells her, shooting her a cocky grin. “Grandmas love me.”

“You watch out for her,” Laurel warns him. “You think my dad’s scary? She’s scarier.”

“Grandma Rosa is scary,” Frank says, because he will defend Grandma Rosa to the death.

Laurel gives him a derisive look, rolls her eyes. “Grandma Rosa has nothing on _Abuela_ Luisa. She cooked for the cartel boss who took my dad on. She stabbed a rival boss during some kind of gang war in the 70’s. No one will tell me whether she killed him or not, which probably means she did.”

“Grandma Rosa killed a bunch of fascists in World War Two. She was like twelve.”

Laurel grins. “You know she still has grenades stashed in some trunk in your parents’ attic?”

Frank nearly chokes on his words. “Seriously?”

He needs to call his parents, wish them a Merry Christmas and warn them to do a thorough attic cleaning. He remembers being about eight and coming across a positively ancient pistol in his grandparents’ basement, stashed behind a broken lawn mower and a half dozen rusted bikes. He thanks whatever deity is out there that he was smart enough not to point it at himself or his brothers and instead took a shot at the mirror in the corner of the basement, shattering it and sending all the adults racing downstairs at the sound of the gunshot. He got grounded for the rest of the summer, told never to touch guns that weren’t his, and wound up listening to his father and Grandma Rosa scream at each other for the rest of the evening about whether or not it's appropriate to leave guns lying around for the grandchildren to find.

Laurel nods. “I thought she was joking till she offered to show me. I should've known from abuela not to doubt old ladies.”

“So if your _abuela_ pulls out a knife at dinner I should be worried?”

She grins. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not.”

“Anyone else I need to worry about?” he asks, looking over the little family tree she’s sketched out for him. Laurel’s tried to indicate how everyone’s related, who’s currently fighting with each other, who will likely be present at Christmas dinner, as well as three or four important things to know about each family member. Frank wants to tell her he could’ve used a little guide like this for her parents and siblings too, wouldn't have been so surprised at her mom’s drinking or the way her brothers are like oil and water, but sensibly decides to stay out of it and just focus on the fact that Laurel thinks her cousin Pablo is currently working at a morgue.

“No,” she tells him with a little laugh. “The rest of them are mostly just nosy and useless and drive my dad crazy asking for money.”

Frank laughs. “I always like a good freeloading cousin,” because well, half his cousins are the freeloading kind. He folds the map, sticks it in his waistcoat pocket. “You think I can pull this out at dinner without anyone noticing?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “I dare you. The tias will probably talk shit about how this is what happens when you date a gringo. They’re still mad Adrian married an Irish girl.”

“What about Vanessa’s husband?” Frank asks. “His name was super white, wasn't it?”

“Brian? Oh, he’s Guatemalan,” Laurel says dismissively. “Nessa did right by the _tias_. But they’re probably gonna tell me I should never be with someone who can’t appreciate a well made _flauta_.”

“Hey,” Frank says defensively. “I love a good _flauta_.”

Laurel laughs. “Fine. Bad example. Would you eat _cabrito_? Roast goat?”

He shrugs. “Don't see why not.”

“Tell them that,” she advises. “You may get on their good side after all.”

“Should I expect an afternoon of people talking shit about me to my face in Spanish?”

Her widening smile is all the answer her needs.

“Great.” And yeah, ok, he’s an Italian Catholic gringo from Philly, and not a Cuban or a Chilean, or better yet, a Mexican like her aunts want, but he’s not entirely sure why that should even matter. He loves her, and he may be a bastard, but he’s not a bastard to her, and really, what else should anyone want? He doesn't get it, doesn't get why his blood should matter more than the way he feels about her, the way she feels about him, to the people who are supposed to care about her. He just doesn't get Laurel’s family, thinks their priorities, their concerns, are all kinds of backwards. He thinks maybe it would be ok if they don't really like him, considering Laurel doesn't really like _them_ , and especially considering the conversation, the demand, that ensued when Jorge decided he liked Frank.

“I can give you a cheat sheet of likely insults too,” she offers teasingly.

“Hey, I know _cabron_ and _pendejo_. And I think I remember ‘go fuck yourself,’” Frank tells her, tone matching hers. “You’ve yelled that at me enough.”

Laurel looks a little guilty, eyes glancing down and away from him as she tries to smother her smirk. “Hey, I yell that at other people too. That asshole who drives the 32 bus. And that gunner at bar review last week.”

“Yeah,” he tells her, trying to sound serious, rolling his eyes at her. “I remember. You nearly got us kicked out.”

“He touched my ass, Frank,” she insists hotly. “And then he told me I’m only at Middleton cause of affirmative action. Fuck him and fuck his mother.”

He never realized, until proximity to Laurel forced it on him, just how often people acted like assholes once they heard her last name, just how often they assumed she wasn't in law school because of her merits, told her to speak English when she chatted with the cashier at the corner store or turned up their noses when she brought _empanadas_ to a potluck, but who were always assuming Laurel’d be able to recommend a Peruvian restaurant.

The thing he truly hated though, was how furious these little acts of aggression made him, how incensed he became on her behalf, and how little Laurel usually seemed to care. She just shrugged and moved on, accustomed to the dirty looks when she switched to Spanish, the sharp drop in interest when she mentioned her last name to a potential employer, because that was normal for her and not something she even felt capable of combating or she’d spend all her time angry and fighting.

The incident with the gunner had been the exception, Frank thinks, because she’d already gotten into it with him a month before in her Immigration Law class when they were discussing amnesty policies and the kid had started using anti-immigrant slurs. Laurel had held back from going off on him then, had kept her calm, but Frank knew how much the incident had gnawed at her, rattled her. She’d said the whole thing had made her doubt herself and her place at Middleton, made her feel not only that she had been forced to speak as a representative of all Latinos, but that the rest of the class had been waiting for her to turn into some kind of stereotype and pop off at him, that despite the kid’s blatantly racist behavior, no one backed Laurel up and it seemed to her like maybe everyone agreed with him, or that the fight was only Laurel’s because of who she was.

Frank had offered, afterwards, and only half-jokingly, to gladly fulfill every stupid Italian mobster cliché and break the guy’s kneecaps or give him some cement shoes, even find a horse head if that’s what she wanted. She’d declined with a laugh, tried to forget the whole thing, and maybe mostly had until the little shit tried to fuck with her again after she’d had a couple of beers and was already stressed about finals.

“ _Chinga su madre,_ ” he agrees then, as Laurel gives a sharp bark of laughter.

“Not bad,” she tells him, trying not to smirk. “I’ll have to start doing more than cursing at you, see if you pick anything up.”

“Don't go too crazy. It's taken me two years to get a dozen insults under my belt.”

She laughs again, squeezes his knee. “I’ll teach you body parts. Make it worth your while.”

“I can get behind that,” he tells her, grins lopsidedly.

She's about to say more, but there's a sharp rap on the window, startling them both. Laurel whips around with a sharp curse and Frank’s hands instinctively curl into fists, his body pitching forward to try and pull Laurel back, figure out a way to protect her if needed.

It's not. Hector and a shorter man stand outside the door, matching bemused looks on their faces. Hector’s companion is stockier than Hector, wearing a navy and white paisley shirt with the sleeves rolled up, probably between Hector and Laurel in age.

“Look who came early,” Hector says, rapping against the window again, voice muffled, pointing at his companion. He’s now changed into a burgundy crushed velvet jacket over an orange and white shirt and Frank wonders if he’s trying to make everyone feel as nauseous as he was during Mass, because, really, that color combination is kind of making his eyes bleed.

The other man raises his eyebrows, gives a little wave.

“Hey Enrique,” Laurel calls, cracking the car door. “You here for a head start on the booze?”

He tilts his head slightly, lifts a half full tumbler in acknowledgment, takes a sip as he wiggles his eyebrows. Hector, of course, follows suit.

Laurel rolls her eyes as she steps out. “God, the two of you are predictable.”

“This the boyfriend?” Enrique asks, though it's not clear whether he’s asking Laurel or her brother.

“I’m the boyfriend,” Frank confirms as he too leaves the car, comes around to stand by Laurel’s side. “Frank.”

“Frank?” Enrique asks, raising his eyebrows at Laurel. “You’ve got better taste than I remember, L.”

“Thanks,” he and Laurel both say sarcastically, sharing a quick glance before Laurel lets Enrique wrap her in a quick hug. She takes the tumbler from his hand, takes a long swallow.

“I’m the fun cousin,” Enrique shakes Frank’s hand quickly before grabbing back the tumbler from Laurel with a glare.

“Anyone else here yet?” she asks, tucking herself into Frank’s side.

“Nope,” Hector tells her. “But Tomas texted to say he was on his way, wanted to know if he needed to bring more booze.”

“Always need more booze,” Laurel rolls her eyes, looks up at Frank as he puts his arm over her shoulder, draws her body closer to his.

“C’mon,” Hector says, turns and glances back towards the house. “I need some more booze too,” he says holding up his empty tumbler.

“Tomas is another cousin. He’s down at the U,” Laurel explains as they turn and follow Hector like little sheep. Hector’s leading them around the house, to the patio, Frank thinks, decides he can think of worse ways to spend Christmas than sitting by a pool by the beach with Laurel and a bottle of tequila. He just wishes the rest of her family wasn’t around.

“Got it,” he says. “Tomas at the U who brings booze.”

Ahead of them, Hector and Enrique both laugh.

“Have you been quizzing him?” Hector mocks, turning around to shoot them a grin.

Laurel tries to look innocent.

“Who’s Eva?” Hector shoots at Frank.

“An aunt,” Frank shoots back.

Enrique laughs, glances between his two cousins. “Definitely been getting quizzed.”

Hector gives Frank another teasing smile. “My sister must really like you Frank. Last guy she brought home, she let us lie to him about who everyone was; their names, how they were related, whatever. Never bothered to correct that misinformation.”

Laurel shrugs innocently. “I was planning on breaking up with him anyway. I mostly just didn't want to come down here by myself.”

“You let us tell him that Tomas was _Abuela’s_ new man,” Hector reminds her with a laugh. “I think we decided he was named Gustavo.”

Hector drops heavily into a deck chair, grabs the half empty bottle of tequila from the middle of the patio table and pours himself a generous measure before passing it to Enrique.

Laurel takes the seat across from Hector and Frank sits to her left, pulling his chair back slightly and angling it so that he’s drawn closer to her. Laurel tucks her feet under her, curling up in the chair tightly, making herself as small and compact as possible, hugs her knees.

“And now he has a super great story to tell his tight-knit Boston Brahman family,” Laurel argues, rolling her eyes, as she takes the tequila from Enrique, sips straight from the bottle, before offering it to Frank. He declines; if there’s one thing he’s learned since meeting Laurel it’s that it’s a terrible idea for him to try and drink tequila with a Mexican. Plus, Frank’s still not entirely convinced they won't be leaving on short notice, possibly at the wrong end of a shotgun barrel and he thinks someone should be sober for when it happens. “So I think it came out a win for everyone.”

Hector and Enrique laugh, toasting Laurel with their tumblers. Hector gives Frank a quick glance, wicked smile sneaking onto his face. “You know Frank, my uncle Rafe only has three toes on his right foot. You should ask him about that.”

He looks to Laurel, sees the quick shake of her head, gives the two snickering men a derisive look. “Thanks for the advice.”

“And you,” Hector says, addressing Laurel. “Should stay the hell away from dad right now. Speaking of good advice.”

“Yeah?”

Enrique nods his assent.

“Yeah,” her brother confirms. “Whatever you said to him, don't do it again. He’s been smacking golf balls from the beach since you left like they killed his father.”

“Nessa tried to tell him golf balls aren’t biodegradable,” Enrique chimes in. “He looked like he was about to turn around and launch one at her head.”

Laurel’s mouth tightens, her eyes go dark, but she doesn't comment and Frank thinks in the grand scheme of things she’s decided it doesn't really matter. He’s more than sure she’s right, that it won't have an appreciable impact on her relationship with her dad, won't ruin things worse than they’ve already been tainted by murder and lies and torture. Laurel’s eyes drift somewhere over Hector’s shoulder, back toward the far end of the huge yard, eyes narrowing slightly as though she can spot her dad. Frank can’t see anything, can’t even hear the distant _thwack_ of a sharply hit golf ball, but he’s not really sure he expected to. “He gonna let me back in or did he instruct you to shoot me on sight?”

“Hasn’t said anything since you two got into it,” Hector laughs, though he frowns slightly as he glances behind him towards the beach where his father must be off hitting golf balls, wishing they were Laurel’s head. “But I’m not sure he would stop anyone who tried.”

“You trying for a repeat of the great Christmas showdown of two years ago?” Enrique asks, flashing Laurel a teasing grin, though, like with Hector, Frank thinks there might be something mean spirited behind his words.

Laurel shakes her head. “No,” she tells him cautiously, like she’s navigating some dangerous terrain, glancing between her brother and cousin. “But I’m not going to stay quiet when he acts like what I want doesn't matter and I’m just some tool for him.”

The two men share a look Frank thinks he doesn't like. “Why not?” Hector asks. “Ignoring him works well for everyone but you.”

She shrugs. “Because ignoring him lets him think he’s won.”

Hector rolls his eyes, glares at Laurel in exasperation. “So let him think that. He always wins in the end anyway so what does it matter?”

“Because winning with me means that I come back here, I defend his boys, I sanction what does to say in power. If you let him win, what happens, Hec?”

“He uses my restaurant to launder money and I probably go to jail.”

“And you didn't let him win on that that one, yeah? Because fuck letting him use you like that, fuck letting him think your only worth is in what you can do for him.”

“But I can ignore him without giving into him,” Hector insists.

“I can't,” she says decisively. “Because it's been nearly ten years and he’s still pushing the same line on me.”

Hector rolls his eyes, scowls deeply. “L, he’s gonna be pushing the same line till one of you is dead. So, like I’ve been saying, either cut him off or let him win.”

Enrique glances between the two of them nervously. “I’ve gotta agree with Hec here, L.”

She rolls her eyes, ignores both of them. “Who’s picking _abuela_ up?”

“Tomas said he offered,” Hector tells her, an edge still sounding like an echo behind his words. “But I think Rafe got volunteered to do the deed.”

Laurel laughs, takes another pull of tequila. “Poor Rafe,” she gives a half turn to look up at Frank. “Rafe and my _abuela_ don’t get along.”

“She thinks he's dull,” Hector explains, glancing at Enrique through the corner of his eye. “Which, admittedly he kind of is. Sorry, E.”

Enrique shrugs. “He’s a dentist,” he tells Frank. “Which seems dull, but may also make him a sadist.”

“That’s another reason she doesn't really like him,” Hector continues, affectionately. “She doesn't trust really trust doctors.”

“I think that applies to most professionals,” Laurel pipes up, grinning wide at her brother. “She asked me why I needed to go to law school when people can just pay the cops and judges off.”

Hector and Enrique simultaneously roll their eyes, sighing deeply.

“Sounds like her,” Hector mutters.

Laurel’s grin spreads wider. “It _is_ a valid question.”

She passes the bottle of tequila back to Hector when he gestures for it, watches him with narrowed eyes as he fills his tumbler to the brim once again.

“What’d you tell her?” Frank asks.

She snickers, teeth glinting sharply. “That in Mexico you bribe the judges; in America you bribe the lawyers.”


	36. Chapter 36

Hector and Enrique are well on their way to intoxication, Laurel not terribly far behind them, when a tall, boyish man with long shaggy hair comes shuffling out to the patio, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, what looks like vodka in the other. He's wearing a navy sports coat over a grey tshirt and that, combined with his carefully sculpted five o'clock shadow, reminds Frank pretty strongly of Connor. He thinks he shouldn't distrust this man on sight, should give him the benefit of the doubt, but isn't sure he can. Frank think he probably wouldn't like him even if he didn't know that the kid was a member of Laurel’s inevitably shitty family.

“Tomas!” Enrique calls out as the man approaches.

“The booze!” Hector echoes.

“Hey guys,” Tomas greets them, setting the bottles on the glass patio table and pulling up another chair between Hector and Enrique. The three men slap hands enthusiastically as Laurel rolls her eyes at them, barely even moves. Frank thinks she might be about to fall asleep again, the combination of the sun, the booze and her exhaustion turning into a pretty effective combination. Laurel looks to Frank nothing more like a lizard sunning itself on a rock, lazy and languid in the heat.

“You the first to arrive?” Hector asks once Tomas has settled himself and has decided to drink straight from the bottle like Laurel, too lazy to go back into the house for a glass.

“Nah,” he says. “My folks beat me here. They're inside with Elena looking at the redecorated bathroom or something. Renata’s around here somewhere; I told her if she found me some glassware I’d let her sneak some vodka into a water bottle.”

“What about Julia?” Laurel asks. “She come down for Christmas?”

Tomas nods. “Oh, Julia flew down. And, according to Renata, has been insufferable since she did. She’s getting published,” he says sarcastically. “Which means Renata feels like a failure again.”

“She still in grad school?” Laurel shifts slightly in her seat, unfolds her body from the chair so she can better engage in the conversation.

“Graduated last year,” Tomas tells her. “Been working on the book since.”

Laurel hums, grins wickedly. “How many copies she bring down with her?”

Tomas rolls his eyes and Frank can see the two older man laugh. “Whole suitcase full.”

“This is Frank, by the way,” Laurel says then, gesturing to Frank.

Tomas glances between them for a long moment, pushes his hair back from his face, grins. “Right. Hector told me you brought a gringo to dinner.”

Laurel rolls her eyes but there doesn’t seem to be anything angry or hurt behind the gesture. Frank thinks maybe things have edged into territory he’s familiar with, the casual teasing jokes common to large families, and have swung wide past the dangerous snarled threats and insults.

“Julia brought one too,” Tomas says then, though by the way he glances to his male cousins, Frank thinks the statement is intended for them more than Laurel. “Her editor.”

Both Hector and Enrique grin wide, calculating.

“Her editor?” Hector repeats. “She sleeping with him? Laurel’s sleeping with this one.”

Laurel snorts. “He’s my boyfriend, of course I’m sleeping with him.”

“Yeah, but you worked for him,” Hector says casually.

She frowns and rolls her eyes, sending Frank a tired little glance, reaches her hand out for his under the table. “I didn't work _for_ him, we had the same boss.”

Enrique grins. “I’m still pretty sure that’s frowned upon, L.”

She just shrugs, smartly lets the conversation die. Frank squeezes her fingers slightly, thinks hard about starting in on the whiskey where he might be able to keep up with Laurel’s family, might not notice, or mind, the firing squad. 

“But, more important than Laurel’s lack of proper workplace etiquette, tell me about this editor,” Hector prompts. “Is she only getting published cause she’s sleeping with someone?”

Tomas shrugs. “No idea. But he came down with her and according to Renata it's driving my mom insane.”

“Speak of the devil,” Enrique chimes in as the patio door swings open again to reveal a tall, thin girl clutching half a dozen tumblers in her arms. “Hey Renata.”

“Hey,” she calls, coming over to them and setting the glassware down. Tomas pops up and grabs her another patio chair, drags it over. Frank again shifts his seat to make room, lets his chair drift closer to Laurel’s until now they’re practically shoulder to shoulder.

“I know we’re not supposed to ask,” Hector says, teasingly. “But how’s the college search going?”

Renata shoots him a murderous look. “Awful.”

“Hey,” Laurel tells her. “I edited you one hell of an admissions essay.”

Renata glances over at Laurel, frowns even deeper, crosses her arms over her chest and leans back petulantly in her chair.

“But it's so lame,” she whines. “Why do they make applications due over Christmas break? I wanna hang out with my friends.”

Laurel purses her lips, doesn't look particularly sympathetic. “You wanna get into college or not?”

Renata glares but eventually nods.

“Then suck it up.”

All three of the boys snicker.

“You think college essays are bad, Renata?” Hector asks, fixing her with a derisive look. “Laurel’s gotta study for the bar in six months.”

Laurel groans. “Don't remind me,” she mutters.

Renata rolls her eyes, shrugs. “Yeah, but Laurel’s practically a genius. And I’ve been working on this essay for like three weeks.”

Laurel gives her cousin a pretty epic side eye as her brother and cousins chuckle. “What the hell are you gonna do in college when you have to write twenty page term papers?”

Renata shrugs casually. “I’m not gonna be an English major.”

The boys guffaw again and Laurel frowns at her cousin. “Don't even try calling me in a year panicking about finals like you did with your essay then.”

Renata’s mouth goes tight, but quickly glances to her brother, gesturing at one of the unused tumblers. “Pour me some vodka,” she tells him. “I’ll tell mom it's water.”

Frank catches Laurel’s narrowed eyes, her weary sigh, thinks that maybe they’re a bit too old for this crowd. He feels like maybe they've been put on babysitting duty again, but this time they've been tasked with watching a bunch of belligerent teenagers. He feels his age, in a way he rarely does with Laurel, feels positively ancient among her cousins and brother. He thinks Laurel probably feels the same, even though he knows both Hector and Enrique are older.

“Renata,” Tomas warns, but passes her the bottle anyway. “Don't act like an idiot.”

She fixes her brother with a stern look, pours her tumbler nearly full. “I can handle my liquor better than you can.”

Laurel sighs, reaches over and takes the tumbler from her cousin. “No way, kid,” she says, sliding the glass between herself and Frank. “Two fingers at a time.”

“The hell kind of rule is that?” Renata asks meanly, reaching again for the bottle.

Hector steps in then, the first time he’s came to Laurel’s defense, Frank thinks, but probably the one time all weekend she’s hardly needed it. He decides, perhaps unfairly, that it's mainly because Renata is going after his liquor. “You want to drink our booze, you play by our rules.”

Renata scowls, but pours something close to two fingers, downing it like a shot, giving Hector and her brother a long, challenging smirk as she does.

“What happened to your hand?” Renata asks Laurel, something mean in her tone once she’s poured herself another healthy measure.

“Gator,” Laurel deadpans.

“I bet you punched someone,” Renata tells her haughtily, eyes narrowing. 

Laurel shrugs. “I’ve punched plenty of people.”

“Bet you punched him,” she says, giving a nod in Frank’s direction. “Who the hell is he anyway?”

Laurel shoots Frank a tired, apologetic smile before turning back to her cousin. “This is Frank,” she tells Renata shortly.

She gives Frank a look he thinks is designed to look cold, appraising. To Frank’s eyes it just comes off as performative, like she’s playing at things she’s seen her mother do. He can decide whether he wants to laugh or pity her. “You her sugar daddy or something?” Renata asks him casually.

Laurel stiffens beside him. “Renata,” she says warningly as Hector gives a hoot of laughter from across the table.

Renata’s head whips toward Laurel. “I didn't ask you,” she sneers. “I asked Frank.”

Laurel shrugs, inclines her head minutely towards Frank. Frank goes ahead and chuckles at this petulant child who thinks she can be fearsome, who’s obviously either overestimated her capabilities or vastly underestimated Laurel’s.

“I’m not her sugar daddy, ok kid,” he tells her patiently, trying not to roll his eyes. “But I don't think it’d be any of your damn business even if I was.”

Renata scowls at him and Frank wonders what it is about Laurel’s family, what's so toxic that even the younger members of her extended family seem corroded by it. He wonders too, if he’s reading too much into things, if they’re not just assholes because they’re still basically children. He doesn't think that's it though; his oldest niece Becca is fifteen and while she can be a bit dramatic and petulant, she never seems mean spirited, calculating, the way Laurel’s cousins do.

It seems to Frank most of all, that her family doesn't like each other, that they get something like genuine enjoyment out of making the others unhappy, uncomfortable. He wonders if that’s a trait they were born with or grew into, because Laurel, and maybe her sister, seem the only ones who don't seem to get a kick out of scoring points against the rest of their relatives.

He understood Hector, understood his need to lash out, to hurt his parents and siblings, because of how Hector’d been hurt. But he’s not sure he knows why Renata, and to a certain degree Tomas, have almost automatically gone on the offensive against their family. It's certainly not as pronounced as Hector’s furious attacks, but he can sense the undercurrent of rage, or animosity crackling behind their eyes. He wants to ask what it is that Laurel’s uncle Miguel does, if he works with Jorge, if that is why his children must appear always ready for war in a way he hasn’t seen yet from Enrique. Dentists may be sadists, Frank thinks, but at least they don't pass it onto their kids.

“I think it is my damn business, _Frank_ ,” she says, emphasizing his name like an insult. “Because Laurel’s always going on about how she doesn't need anyone’s money. How she’s some independent woman Beyoncé shit.”

Beside him, Frank can feel Laurel tense. “Ok,” she says coldly, effectively cutting Renata off. “You clearly _can’t_ handle your liquor and you’re done. You want to act like a child, go sit inside with the children.”

Laurel flashes Hector a look and though he sighs, he grabs the bottles from Renata’s reach, sliding them down the table, while Laurel, again, takes her glass. This time she offers it to Frank with a little incline of her wrist. He shrugs, takes it and knocks back the rest of the vodka.

“Ignoring your ‘independent woman Beyoncé shit,’” Enrique says with a derisive roll of his eyes that fix for just a moment too long on Renata. “What _did_ you do to your hand? Hector’s being surprisingly tight-lipped about it.”

Laurel shrugs, overly casual to Frank’s eyes. He watches her begin to play with the fraying edge of the gauze, picking at it and pulling it apart. “Broke a glass,” she tells him, tone bored. He catches the look she sends Hector, the small grateful smile.

“Jeez, L,” Enrique whistles. “That looks pretty gnarly for a broken glass.”

She shrugs again.

“Hey Frank,” Enrique continues. “Can you just give her sippy cups from now on? Those weird little scars on her fingers? Glass shattered in her hand. She clearly can't be trusted.”

Frank tries not to let his surprise show, tries to keep his reaction from his face. He can't help glancing at Laurel, at Hector, the two people who seem to know the truth. Hector’s frowning hard, staring intently at his lap, practically squirming in discomfort.

Frank thinks if anyone was paying attention, it would be obvious he’s hiding something. Laurel’s face is impassive, expressionless, a small, humoring smile slicing her lips, though Frank thinks there's something tight and tense in the line of her body. “I’ll buy some bendy straws too,” Frank jokes. “Or you wanna wear mittens, babe?”

Laurel rolls her eyes, but flashes Frank a grateful smile that he’s playing along with the lie. “I could rock mittens I think.”

“Definitely,” Enrique agrees as Tomas laughs his assent. Hector glances up, gives a small smile and seems to unclench a degree or two. Laurel is still on guard, watchful, but her smile grows slightly wider, even though her eyes still dart between her brother and cousin and Frank, as though she fears someone is going to say something they shouldn't, spill the beans and expose the terrible truth.

“Though,” she says with a quick laugh. “Bendy straws are pretty tempting.”

The patio door opens once again then, and another of what must be Laurel’s cousins steps out onto the patio. Frank thinks its like an upgraded kiddy table out on the patio with the younger generation of Castillos relegated outdoors by themselves. The new arrivals are a thin blonde girl about Laurel’s age, dressed in a short floral patterned dress and leggings, clunky boots with towering heels clicking sharply against the stone of the patio. She’s followed closely behind her by a man, average height, slightly portly, wearing a dress shirt, a hopelessly skinny tie and navy blazer and a pair of pleated khakis. His head is shaved, though he does have the beginnings of a beard starting.

Hector catches Frank's eye, rolls his eyes. Makes sense, Frank decides, that Hector’s not a huge fan of khaki wearers.

The girl, Laurel’s cousin Julia, Frank assumes, calls something out in Spanish, setting the rest of the Castillos chuckling. Frank thinks he hears a request for English from Hector, catches the gesture he uses to indicate Frank’s presence.

She throws some probable insult at Hector, again in Spanish as she and her companion settle around the table. “Who invited another white guy?” she asks, feigning annoyance. “I thought I called dibs last year.”

“It was Laurel,” Enrique tells her, grinning wide. “So she wasn’t here to know about it.”

“Sorry,” Laurel tells the new arrival sarcastically, her grin teasing. “You want me to ask him to leave?”

She huffs slightly. “No, he’s here already, let him stay.”

“So who’s your white guy?” Hector asks her. “Laurel’s is Frank. He’s Italian, if that helps.”

The girl shakes her head, rolls her eyes. “How does that make a difference?”

Hector shrugs. “No idea.”

She ignores him. “This is Tim everyone, my editor.”

There’s a chorus of ‘Hi, Tims,’ from the crowd. Frank makes note of the fact that no one bothers to introduce themselves to poor hapless Tim, though he catches Julia quickly pointing out who everyone is. 

“Tell us about the book, then, Jules,” Enrique prompts, smile predatory, sharing a gleeful glance with Hector.

Julia shares a quick look with Tim, grins when he gives her a proud, affectionate smile, prompting her to go on. “It’s magical realism,” she tells them.

“About what?” Hector asks.

“About a woman who goes to the store and comes home to a man living in her house, who claims it's his house.”

“Seriously?” Hector looks skeptical, like he’s about a minute away from laughing at his cousin. Enrique doesn't look much better. “That sounds fucking awful.”

“Worse than that,” Tomas jumps in. “It sounds fucking boring.”

“If it's some _Sixth Sense_ bullshit and dude’s a ghost, that's the worst plot I’ve ever heard in my entire life,” Renata tells her sister imperiously.

Julia frowns, looks slightly offended. Tim looks a little taken aback at the abrupt verdict on Julia’s book.

“It’s a metaphor for relationships, right?” Laurel asks then, softly, the way she still does when she thinks she’s figured something out, something that others have likely missed. She’s a lot more confident about trusting herself and her conclusions, about the connections she sees when no one else can, but it doesn't always come across that way. Frank thinks she often still sounds lost and worried and meek, but thinks she might just sound that way on instinct now after so many years of being ignored or overlooked. “That other people are always a mystery, always just strangers to us, no matter how long you spend with them?”

Julia continues to frown, but her eyes narrow as she regards Laurel. “Did my mom tell you about the book?”

Laurel shakes her head, sips at the tumbler of vodka sitting between her and Frank.

“You just guessed that?” Julia asks, voice stiff, almost strangled. Tim too, appears somewhat shocked at Laurel’s blithe reading of the supposed subtleties of Julia’s book. He’s sitting up straighter, leaning forward slightly, though he only has one eye on Laurel, the other fixed completely on Julia.

Frank’s not surprised, not really, it certainly makes more sense than that Julia wrote a book about sharing an apartment with a ghost and when he reads as much as he does, well, he got pretty skilled at picking up the tricks and the trends, seeing where things are leading, hinting at. He thinks Laurel probably just instinctively has that skill though, can wade through the layers of things designed to obscure and get to the heart of the matter because she’s spend her entire life doing that on a daily basis, trying to sift through the lies and obfuscations other people tell her to get to the truth. The real surprising thing is, Frank thinks, that the rest of her family can’t do what she can, just accepts things as they are, or doesn't care that they’re lies.

“Yeah,” Laurel says slowly, as though she doesn't entirely trust Julia’s question.

“Goddamn it Laurel,” Julia mutters. 

Laurel looks around, confused. “Was that supposed to be a surprise or something?”

“Spoilers,” Hector cackles gleefully.

“Yeah,” Julia tells her, annoyed. “It only gets revealed halfway through the book.”

Enrique lifts his tumbler in a mocking salute. “It’s not like any of us were gonna read it, Jules, you know that right?”

“I might’ve,” Tomas cuts in. “But probably just to be a supportive brother.” Frank thinks he might go ahead and read it too, just to see what the fuss is about. But he doubts his enjoyment of the book will be ruined by knowing it's supposed to be about relationships rather than a strange houseguest.

“Sorry,” Laurel says, but she still sounds a little confused. “I didn't realize it wasn't clear the whole time.”

Hector and Enrique snicker around their drinks. Tomas and Renata too, look half gleeful at Laurel’s bewilderment and Julia’s frustration that her apparently subtle plot twist got figured out so quickly.

“Ok,” Frank says, deciding to try and throw Julia a bit of the attention she’s clearly craving about the book. “So girl comes home and there's a guy just chilling in the apartment saying it's his, yeah?”

She nods.

“Anything different about the apartment or is it exactly the same?”

“No,” Julia says. “Nothing appears different than when she left.”

Frank sees Laurel grin beside him, wide and pleased, as though she’s figured out another of the supposed mysteries of Julia’s book. He gives her a look and she settles her face into something impassive, sips at the tumbler again and quiets, decides she doesn't need to prove how smart she is. Frank figures she knows he’ll ask her about it later, what she thought she knew and how she figured it out, will laugh at her when she rolls her eyes and tells him it should be obvious.

“You’re implying things _are_ different though,” Frank tells her then, once he’s sure Laurel isn't going to just walk over everything and destroy whatever confidence Julia may have over the subtleties of her book.

Julia nods. “They are,” she gives Laurel a glance that may have some hint of weary animosity, as though this is not the first time Laurel’s unwittingly blown the lid on something Julia thought was safe and secret. “But only little things, and she only notices them slowly.”

“Seems like a relationship,” Enrique quips and just like that, the conversation skips ahead to their various romantic failings.

The general consensus quickly seems to be that Enrique has it the worst, though Frank can’t really figure out why that appears to be the accepted wisdom.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is another pretty long chapter; there just wasn't a good place to break it up that wouldn't leave things with one really long and one really short chapter. There's gonna be another couple of slower chapters to get through Xmas before things start ramping up and falling into place...  
> honestly, like a good quarter of the remaining chapters are people having vaguely threatening (and sometimes not so vague, but more like actually violent) conversations with each other. So hopefully that's something people are down for.  
> And then another quarter are pretty much gonna just be Frank being completely lost and confused but also Mr. Ride or Die. Which I KNOW people are down for.

“Hey,” Laurel says soon after that, leaning over to speak close in Frank’s ear; he thinks so that her cousins can’t hear. “Wanna go inside?”

He shrugs. He’s not sure going inside with her parents, aunts and uncles will be much of an improvement, but he’s willing to go where she wants.

She gives him a half-smile before pushing her chair back and standing. Frank follows after half a second.

Hector and Enrique share a look before Hector addresses Laurel in quick Spanish, sounding joking to Frank’s ears though he can’t be certain. Certainly her cousins all laugh, look expectantly to Laurel for her response.

She shoots something back, her grin flashing and sharp. The cousins all laugh, even Renata, Hector toasting either him or Laurel or both of them with his half full glass before Laurel turns and they head towards the house.

“I really should've learned Spanish before coming down here,” Frank grouses as they duck into the kitchen.

Laurel laughs lightly. “You didn't miss much,” she says grinning. “He asked if we were sneaking off to hook up. I asked him if he wanted to come watch.”

“I like your brother well enough, but that's a hard pass for me babe,” he tells her, giving her a lopsided smile.

She laughs again. “Fortunately, Hector’s tastes may be a little twisted, but he’s not a voyeur.”

The kitchen is in a state of controlled chaos, three white jacketed men scurrying between the countertops and stoves under the barked orders of an older man glaring imperiously at them. All four men turn as he and Laurel enter the kitchen, the man in charge glowering furiously at Laurel.

“Sorry Emile,” Laurel says bashfully, wilting slightly under his stern glare. “You know where Paola is?”

Emile shrugs. “Your father pays me to worry about food, not his wayward maid.”

Laurel rolls her eyes slightly as Emile turns back to his assistants. “Thanks anyway.”

“You have a chef?” Frank whispers incredulously. Damn, he thinks, how rich are the Castillos exactly. Frank figures he probably doesn't want to know the answer, would like to imagine that the chef is someone they bring in just for special occasions like Christmas and maybe Easter.

“My dad has a chef,” she corrects sharply. “But yes. Can you really imagine Elena cooking?”

Frank chuckles, tries hard not to until he sees Laurel’s wry smile as they turn to leave he kitchen.

As they near the opposite side two people sweep into the kitchen, startling the cooks again. Emile turns sharply, Frank suspects to begin yelling, when he realizes who it is. Elena, drink still in hand, and Paola, looking somewhat uncomfortable, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Emile,” Elena begins, fixing him with a glare that's much sharper than his own, rapidly fading one. “I told my guests that dinner would begin at three. They arrived when they did because they planned on eating at four thirty. And now you’re telling me that isn't going to happen?”

“The turkey needs longer to cook,” he tells Elena flatly, as though he expects his answer to be greeted with anger, that he believes he cannot avoid it. “I can’t make it go any faster. If we serve now, your guests will have to wait between courses.”

“If you stretch each course out five minutes longer?” Elena asks haughtily, as though Emile has probably not even considered such a simple solution.

“They will still be waiting. The turkey needs an hour at least.”

“Well think of something,” she tells him, eyes flashing. “I don't just pay you to cook. I pay you to cook on time.”

Frank can see Emile try to stifle a sigh, clench his jaw tightly. He suspects the man tries very, very hard not to remind Elena that it's likely Jorge who cuts the checks. “We’ll figure something out,” he tells her, and there’s only a hint of angry frustration in his voice.

“Good,” Elena says, sweeping out of the room. “I expect service to begin in fifteen.”

She pauses then in the doorway, appears to only just realize Laurel is standing there. Elena seems to stare at Laurel for just a moment too long, as though she can't understand her daughter, can’t even comprehend her presence. Frank thinks there is something fearful in her eyes, something troubled in the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth in a gesture that feels both strangely familiar and distinctly alien when he sees it on Elena rather than her daughter.

He wonders at it, at the strange little threads of connection between Laurel and her family; how she is so different from all of them, and yet, when he least expects it, he’s reminded, like an echo or a shadow, that yes, these other people are not strangers, they’re her blood. Frank is reminded that despite everything, Laurel was raised by and with these people, didn't grow up in some vacuum, that some of her words, gestures, thoughts must come from her mother, however few they may be, and he may never know which, or why. He thinks to Julia’s stupid book, how maybe you can’t ever really know someone, how he may never fully know Laurel and Frank can’t honestly decide whether the thought makes him sad or happy. He thinks he could be ok with the not knowing, with spending the rest of his days discovering something strange and unexpected about her, as long as she continues to let him uncover those things, both secret and mundane, as long as she never wants him to stop getting to know her.

“Darling,” Elena says then, something Frank decides is caution, worry, in her voice. “Go see your father please. Let him know dinner will be ready shortly. Fifteen if Emile earns his salary.”

“Elena,” Laurel says, and there’s nothing like a whine, nothing like laziness in her tone. It seems more like a warning, like an echo of her mother’s caution, a response to it, or a confirmation that Elena’s worry was not misplaced.

“Nonsense Laurel,” Elena says sharply, the worry now vanished from her voice. “Go find your father, tell him dinner is ready. And while you’re at it, apologize for whatever it is you’ve gotten him angry about.”

Laurel makes a little noise of protest, but Frank thinks only he’s close enough to hear it.

“Really, darling,” Elena continues casually. “I don't understand why you insist on upsetting him every Christmas. Do you get some pleasure out of ruining his holiday?”

“Of course not,” Laurel says, voice edged.

“Then why on earth do you continue with these ugly games. Starting a fight with him, or refusing to come down over Christmas?”

Laurel sighs. “It’s not quite at simple as that, Elena,” she says, and Frank almost wishes he could hear a note of hurt in her voice instead of this cold, bored tone. “And I think if you really wanted to have a conversation about this, we would’ve had it about seven years ago.”

“Laurel,” Elena begins, though Frank’s not sure if she intends to argue or apologize.

Laurel gives her mom a tight smile. “We can talk later if you really want, but you’ve made it clear it's important we eat soon. I’m going to find dad.”

“Sometimes there is not a single member of my family that I can stand,” she mutters as they wander back outside, down towards the beach.

“Tough being an introvert in a big family, huh?” he jokes, knowing that’s far, far from the heart of the matter.

She rolls her eyes. “More like tough being in a family of assholes. God, dinner’s gonna be a disaster.”

Frank shoots her a sidelong glance. “How bad’s it gonna be?”

Laurel hums vaguely. “Depends on who gets drunk first, and who’s resentments have been festering the longest. My money’s on Renata blowing up this year. Maybe Rafe, if _abuela’s_ in a fighting mood.”

“That’s not what I meant, babe,” Frank says trying to sound casual, but giving her a look, prompting, expectant. They’ve reached the sand now, and Frank toes off his shoes and socks, glancing away from Laurel so he doesn’t notice whatever look she sends him, most likely annoyed.

She hums again, slips off her heels and waits for him to roll up an inch or two of his pants legs. “Depends on what my dad had to say. And Elena, if she bothers.”

“Have to say about what?” he asks, trying to keep the edge from his voice, the worry.

“About me, you. Who knows?”

He frowns. “I expect it’ll be pretty awful then, considering.”

She makes a little noise of disagreement, kicks at the sand once, twice. Frank decides it's less out of anger than worry, but he can’t be certain. “I think you’re on his good side till Sunday.”

“You mean until he realizes I’m not gonna kill anyone for him.”

Laurel nods. “But then we won't have to see him again for another year. At least.”

“And you?” he asks, because really, after the confrontation following church, he’s hardly worried about himself. He’s worried about Laurel, if he’s being honest, worried about the consequences, the fallout from her argument with Jorge. Her father does not strike Frank as a man who will take Laurel’s standing up to him as anything other than a personal attack, as the deepest disrespect, and Frank’s honestly not sure that he is capable of reacting with anything other than rage, violence to those perceived attacks. “Are you on his bad side?”

Laurel gives one of those casual shrugs that worries Frank more than comforts him, despite what he thinks are her intentions to the contrary. “That's kind of a relative question.”

“I mean it Laurel,” he says, trying not to frown.

“It's fine,” she tells him insistently. “I’m fine.”

He nods. She has told him she’s fine more times than he thinks he ought to count, and he’s starting to suspect that Laurel’s definition of what fine is, is light years away from what his is, starting to realize that maybe the term fine is beginning to lose meaning completely. “Ok. But if you're not, you gotta let me know.”

“Ok,” she echoes as they approach Laurel’s father. He’s removed his dress shirt, stripped down to only a wife beater and is furiously driving balls into the ocean. There are three large empty pails of balls, and one tipped over on its side with probably half a dozen left. Jorge rolls one close to him, glares down at it and swings, hard and fluid. Frank doesn't even think Jorge is breathing heavy, can see only a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and shoulders.

Laurel takes his hand as they approach, though Frank can't quite decide whether she does it to comfort him or herself. He decides it must be for her own benefit, because she doesn't squeeze his hand like he’s noticed she does when she’s trying to ease his mind. He decides, as his fingers catch against the little paper ring on her hand, that it's not likely done in order to present an appearance of unity towards her father, thinks that if anything she’s been guarded since they’ve arrived in Florida.

“You’ve timed things well,” Laurel says, voice too casual, too loud to Frank’s ears, gesturing with her free hand at the few remaining balls, a flat smile on her face.

Frank watches Jorge closely, watches his reaction to his daughter’s appearance. His eyes narrow dangerously, but he turns away, hits another ball, and then another, doing a very good job of pretending Laurel doesn’t exist, hasn't spoken. Frank thinks the cold shoulder, silent treatment is a decidedly unexpected reaction from her father, thinks that Jorge may well simply be biding his time, lying in wait to react, to attack. Because he is clearly still angry at his daughter, despite his efforts at appearing bored and unconcerned.

“Your mother sent you,” Jorge says once he's hit the last of the balls, and there is nothing like a question in his tone. He hardly even sounds angry, though Frank thinks the way he clutches his driver in his fist, the way his eyes still flash like knives, says differently. “To tell me dinner is ready.” 

Laurel nods, swallows hard. “I think she wanted us to smooth things over before dinner,” she tells him, and Frank wonders at how much courage or strength or stupidity it took Laurel to utter those words, to acknowledge the fight that came before, the anger still burning low under the surface, because Jorge clearly wants to pretend like nothing happened.

Jorge gives her a mocking smile, something nasty settling behind his eyes like a shield, something brutal and pleased. “I think you made it clear that whatever you are angry about is not something we can smooth over,” he tells her with finality, turning and scooping up one of the pails, handing it to Laurel. He gives one to Frank and takes the last two for himself.

“I’d like it if we could understand each other,” Laurel tells him, and again, and Frank would swear he hears pleading in her voice. He wants to tell her that it's not going to do her any good, that offering him a last minute reprieve, the chance to confess or to end hostilities; none of that is going to work on Jorge. He’s not going to change his tune, he’s not going to give any ground to her and Laurel will be left having to make a choice, whether she wants to or not, however much she wishes it could be avoided. But Frank can see her wavering, see her doubting her decision, and wishes it wasn’t so hard, wasn’t such a wrenching, impossible choice.

Frank wants to tell her that if she doesn't want to choose, doesn't want to turn on her father, her family, she doesn't have to, doesn't have to look for an excuse to avoid making that horrible choice. He wants to tell her he understands, won't blame her, won't judge her if she doesn't want to turn against her father, turn him in, if she loves him too much to do that. He’s just not sure Laurel can forgive herself if she lets him continue his vicious, terrible work.

He thinks she gets the idea when Jorge scoffs, sneers at her. “I think you also made it clear, _mija_ , that understanding each other is impossible too.”

“Ok dad,” Laurel says softly, resigned and defeated, her eyes sliding to the sand, skittering to fix on her feet. “I’m sorry it’s gonna be that way.”

_Seriously?_ Frank wants to ask Laurel, ask how she can possibly let herself be manipulated like this, guilted for her anger, her shame at what her father does. How she can be made to feel that it's her fault for the fight they had, her fault for the sudden Cold War they've descended into. He wants to tell her it's fucking bullshit and her father is an asshole, but he suspects that's probably half of Jorge’s intention; to cause conflict and anger between her and everyone else, isolate her and make her doubt her own judgment, her own feelings. So he stays silent, glaring daggers at Jorge, hoping he fucking notices and knows Frank can see through him, see what a cowardly asshole he is where Laurel is concerned.

Laurel holds her hand out then, silently asking for another of the golf ball pails. Frank suspects this is her attempt at an apology when she will not give him a verbal one. Jorge looks at her a moment, narrows his eyes, before handing the pail over, leaving him with one pail and his driver. Laurel smiles softly as she takes the pail, can’t suppress the beaming gaze she turns on her father, as though that small gesture has erased all the animosity and anger. He thinks, perhaps, given her father’s moods, the rage in him that fades and bursts like a flame, maybe she can tell it’s a start.

The go together, silently, back to the house. Hector and the cousins appear to already be inside, the patio table empty. As they enter through a sunroom, Jorge indicates to both of them that the pails should be discarded beside the door, presumably for Paola to pick up later. Laurel huffs a little but drops the pails where indicated and Jorge leads them to what Frank swears is a different dining room from the one he saw the night he and Laurel arrived. Everyone seems to be seated already, Laurel’s siblings and her cousins and what must be her aunts and uncles and her fearsome little grandmother.

“Laurel,” the elderly woman calls, rattling off a long string of Spanish, opening her arms wide for her granddaughter.  
He sees Laurel’s face break into a radiant smile, and Frank feels a little thrill of shock at the expression, having almost forgotten she was capable of smiling so wide; with the exception of the day before at the bookstore, Frank thinks she hasn’t seemed anywhere near happy since they landed.

Laurel responds to her grandmother, going over to her and giving her a long hug. Jorge, Frank notices, heads in the opposite direction, taking his seat at the head of the table without acknowledging his mother. Laurel and her grandmother talk quickly and rapidly before Laurel seems to remember Frank, gestures over to him and indicates he should take one of the two empty seats at the far end of the table, down from her grandmother.

He goes to take the seat, but Laurel catches his wrist as he moves past her, shaking her head slightly with a crooked little smile.

“ _Abuela_ ,” she begins, gesturing to Frank before launching into what sounds like either an introduction or explanation.

Her grandmother responds, smiling wide at Frank, her clear dark eyes fixed on him.

“I introduced you,” Laurel says by way of explanation. “She says it's good to meet you and she told me she likes your look,” Laurel’s lopsided grin grows wider. “She says you look like a good man.”

“Told you grandmas love me,” Frank tells her smugly. “Tell her thanks, and that I think she sounds like a damn smart woman.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, still grinning. “She’s gonna love that, suck up.”

When she conveys this to her _abuela,_ the little woman’s face breaks into a beaming smile, turning to Laurel and telling her something low and serious before letting Laurel take the seat next to her. “She said I should make you propose to me,” Laurel tells him as she leans close, her blue eyes dancing. “Because you may be a good man, but you can make a lie sound like the truth.”

Frank laughs quickly. “If she thinks that's a good thing, I _know_ I like her.”

Laurel chuckles, squeezes his hand before leaning even closer to whisper to him. “Would you mind if I told her about this?” she asks, quickly indicating their paper rings.

He shrugs, tries not to grin wide, like a happy idiot. “Why would I mind?”

She flashes him a smile before turning to her grandmother, speaking so softly he can barely tell Laurel’s speaking other than the movement of her head and hands. He watches her grandmother instead, the furrows on her wrinkled brow, the way she peers intently at Laurel, ignoring everything else. Her face suddenly breaks into a wide smile, eyes dancing as they track over to Frank. She kisses the back of Laurel’s hand, kisses the paper ring, and beams at her before saying something, leaning close.

Laurel laughs sharply, kisses her grandmother’s cheek and turns back to Frank. “I told her I proposed to you already. She said I should've waited; that it always takes men longer to figure these things out.”

“What you should tell her is that I had a damn ring, had it all ready, and then you wanted to come here for Christmas and ruined my plans.”

She laughs lightly, hand going to his knee. “So you say,” she tells him as Paola and another woman begin to bring in platters of food.

He thinks Emile has done a good job of disguising the delay in getting the turkey finished. They're served some kind of spinach and strawberry salad with a sweet, vinegary dressing that he can only tell wasn’t originally on the menu from the way Elena looks suspiciously from the plate to Paola before tentatively tasting it.

Laurel’s grandmother ignores the salad, leans around her granddaughter and focuses her gaze on Frank.

“Now,” she says to Frank, peering shrewdly down at him. “We speak.”

She turns to Laurel, addressing her quickly with what Frank thinks is an explanation of their impending conversation. Laurel smiles warmly, shoots Frank a little eye roll as she replies.

“She wants to quiz you,” Laurel explains as she nudges her salad with a fork. “Make sure you're good enough for me.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, his grin twisting. “You gonna assure her I’m not half bad.”

“We’ll see,” she hums before speaking quickly to her grandmother again.

Her grandmother gives Laurel a searching look, eyes then swinging to Frank. She glances to Laurel, inclines her head and then looks seriously at Frank, speaking quickly, a wide smile on her face.

“She wants to get to know you,” Laurel tells him, her eyes rolling. “But first wants to know what you think of Florida.”

Frank’s mouth quirks slightly. “Not really my cup of tea.”

The corner of Laurel’s mouth twists as she translates and when she conveys the answer so does her grandmother’s. _Abuela_ Luisa says something which makes Laurel grimace, wince. Laurel seems not to translate fast enough because her grandmother speaks again, insistently. “She asks whether you think there are too many Cubans.”

Frank laughs before he can help himself, raising his eyebrows at Laurel. “I like Cubans.”

“Do you like Mexicans more?” Laurel translates, grin slipping wider, glancing accusingly at her grandmother, but relaying her words anyway.

“Uh, sure,” Frank says, shrugging, hoping that she will choose to convey whatever the correct answer is to her grandmother.

“Why don't you know any Spanish?”

He glares weakly at Laurel. “What, you couldn't make something up?”

She shrugs. “She asked you, not me.”

He sighs. Great, her grandma is gonna decide he’s a shit boyfriend because he can’t be bothered to learn at least rudimentary Spanish. “Cause I’m shitty at languages. And you only use Spanish when you’re mad. Or when you don't want me to know what you’re saying.”

Laurel gives him a sarcastic little smile. “ _I_ want to know why you don't count when I speak it in bed. And _she_ wants to know if you’re opposed to learning,” she gives her grandmother a dark look then, mouth twisting, but barrels on anyway when Luisa completely ignores Laurel. “And if you’re gonna have a problem with our kids speaking it.”

Frank grins wide, smirks. “Oh I’m pretty certain I don't have much choice there.”

“That applies both to having kids at all and whether they’re bilingual,” she tells him quickly before going back to translating. His breath catches for half a second before he sees her wry teasing smile and he knows she’s mostly just giving him a hard time, making him sweat. “And what do you think of Jorge?”

“I’m glad we're only staying a few days,” he says, trying to be polite, be vague or diplomatic or whatever. He doesn’t think her grandmother likes Jorge very much, but doesn't want to be too condemning until he’s certain. Even monsters have mothers after all, were once children.

Laurel laughs as she speaks to her grandmother, but then her eyes go dark, shooting a long glare at her grandmother and when she speaks her voice is stiff, jaw clenched tight. “He's a real bastard, isn't he?”

Frank nods, keeps his eyes fixed on Laurel’s face as he speaks. “He seems pretty focused on himself, on what he wants,” he allows.

Luisa says something sharp, lips twisting into something that might be a smile, might be a grimace as Laurel speaks for her.

“He’s a cocksucker,” Laurel relays, a grin slipping onto her face before she replaces it with a scowl, shoots another weak glare at her grandmother. “A vicious, greedy cocksucker. And if she didn't think he’d do something stupid, or…or dangerous, she’d put him in his place. He’s not a man who deals with criticism well. And,” she glances quickly at her grandmother, scowls even more, takes her grandmother’s hand in both of hers and gives her an inscrutable look, the two of them speaking rapidly, vehemently in Spanish.

“And she says it's her fault. It's not her fault,” she says to Frank eventually, still insistent, repeating it in Spanish again, her eyes fixing again on her grandmother.

The two of them converse in hushed tones for a long minute. Frank isn't sure they’re arguing, but they’re certainly having some difference of opinion; he thinks from the way Laurel keeps hold of her grandmother’s hand, inclines her head towards her, that she’s trying to convince or reassure Luisa of something, probably to do with her father. “She thinks she should've been better at putting him in his place, because she wasn't there for him when he was little. She had to worry about money too much. And she put that on him, that worry, because he was the oldest. So now that's all he cares about. But it's not really her fault, he just chose to be an asshole.”

Frank frowns, holds Luisa’s gaze. “That's cutting him too much slack. You’re not an asshole, you choose not to be an asshole. He could too, no matter how bad he may have had it.”

“Yeah,” Laurel sighs. “Yeah. It's all about having a choice, making the choice not to hurt people.”

Frank runs a hand through his beard, notes her choice of words; that she interprets ‘not an asshole’ as someone who doesn't hurt others, not some other definition, thinks that speaks so deeply to Laurel’s biggest problem with her father, that she believes him to be selfish, egotistical and ruthless, is convinced that the almost-pleasure he gets from hurting others is the thing that makes him irredeemable, condemns him worse than anything else Jorge may do. That the scars she carries deepest, the ones that still twinge and ache are not the ones visible on her body, but the ones that mark her somewhere deep inside, some place that she locks away and tries to overlook, but that makes her question her very existence, makes her wonder if she’s like him, destined for nothing but causing hurt in others to match her own.

She quickly conveys their exchange to Luisa who nods. “Yes,” she tells Frank in halting English. “Yes, you are right. Smart man.”

Laurel tries grinning, manages something weak and sickly, but rolls her eyes anyway. “You and grandmas.”

“Toldja,” he says with a cocky little smirk as she quickly explains the exchange to her grandmother when she shoots Laurel an insistent look.

“Where did we meet?” Laurel translates next, huffing slightly. “She wants the whole story.”


	38. Chapter 38

So he gives it to her, and then some; answering the myriad of questions he expected from her parents, or her siblings, that no one so far has seemed to bother with. He’s glad at least someone in Laurel’s life cares enough to give him the run through, make sure he’s not some psycho, some idiot, but the quizzing from her grandmother just makes him notice the difference, the contrast between her and the rest of her family.

He guesses Hector tried a little, that first morning, but well, he thinks Hector was more concerned with screwing with Laurel than with getting any kind of bead on Frank. So, well, better her grandmother than no one, but he still wishes, as unpleasant as the grilling is, that someone had done it, at least gone through the motions. Instead he just got asked if he’d kill a federal agent for Laurel, which he guesses is basically the same thing when he thinks hard enough about it; the heart of the matter really just trying to figure out whether he loves her enough, how far he’d go to protect her. He’s pretty sure he failed with Jorge then, pretty sure he passed with Luisa. And, most importantly, he’s pretty sure he’s still passing with Laurel, pretty confident he didn't say anything that made her question just what exactly she’s doing with him, which is really all that matters to Frank when the chips are down.

And so most of dinner goes relatively smoothly; since he and Laurel are down at the far end of the table, next to her grandmother and across from Enrique, Julia and Tim, with Hector at the other end of the table. Laurel seems pleased by this though she still seems somewhat cautious, on edge. Frank thinks that may just be how she is in Florida, always waiting for the trap to spring, unable to relax until she is above the Mason-Dixon Line.

Hector, too, is unexpectedly quiet, trading quiet jokes with Enrique and occasionally Frank, but for the most part seeming happy to be ignored. Things are peaceful through the salad, then the soup and even through a course of ceviche, which makes Frank shoot a quizzical look at both Laurel and Hector, asking in a low voice whether this is what they mean by ‘Mexican Christmas.’

“No,” Laurel tells him, rolling her eyes. “This is just Emile trying to show off.”

Hector gets a little life back, grinning wickedly. “He’s scared of _abuela_ ,” he explains. “Always tries to do something fancy when she’s over.”

“What do you think he used besides fish?” he hears Tim ask from down the table. “It’s very interesting.”

Frank thinks he addresses this to Julia, rather than to the whole table, but Hector, naturally pipes up. “Octopus,” he offers helpfully, grinning at the look Julia shoots him. “Maybe some squid.”

“Thanks Hec,” Julia tells him waspishly. “But since you’re such an expert chef, why don't we ever get you to cook dinner and let your chef take the day off?”

Hector narrows his eyes. “First of all, Julia, he’s not _my_ chef. Second of all, I don't cook for shits and giggles. I’d expect to be paid. And third of all, if I wanted to cook on Christmas I would keep my restaurant open, ok? I don't ask you to write a novel on your downtime, do I?”

She glares across the table at Hector, turns to Laurel, fixes her with an expectant look. “Back me up here, L. It's fucked up we force people to work on Christmas instead of letting them spend time with their families.

“Maybe,” Laurel agrees cautiously. “But I can’t say it's fucked up because I don't know if Paola or Emile or the others think it's fucked up, if they’d want to have the day off rather than get paid whatever exorbitant sum of money dad is offering them to be here.”

“It's fucked up in principle,” Julia insists, gesturing vehemently at Laurel with her wine glass. “Seriously, Laurel, you don't think so?”

Laurel frowns, takes a minute to test the air, glance quickly down the table to see if anyone else has noticed the conversation before continuing. “I don't,” she tells her cousin again. “Because I’m not going to speak for Paola or Emile about something that effects them, not me.”

“Jesus, Laurel,” Julia scoffs derisively. “Law school fucked you up good, didn't it?”

Laurel shrugs. “It wasn't law school that taught me not to speak for other people.”

“But you can have a goddamn opinion can't you?” she asks, still sounding angry that Laurel hasn’t agreed with her. “Or did law school teach you that you can only have one if you get paid?”

Laurel’s mouth goes flat, tenses into a thin little line. Frank thinks she’s trying her best not to get mad, sees her long exhale before speaking. “My goddamn opinion, Julia, is that whatever I may think about it doesn't matter, because it's not my issue. If Paola is unhappy about it, thinks she’s being coerced into working Christmas, then yes, it’d be fucked up. But I’m not going to put words in her mouth.”

“Or you just gonna be a goddamn coward.”

Laurel’s eyebrows pull tight, angry. “Julia,” she says, voice low as though she’s struggling to keep her calm. “I don't see you protesting dinner.”

Hector hoots and Enrique stifles what Frank thinks is a grin behind his wine glass. “Put up or shut up, Jules,” Hector tells her.

“My protesting dinner won't do anything,” she says, sipping long from her glass, apparently deciding to let the matter drop.

“But I thought you’d agree with me about it being totally awful.”

Laurel gives her cousin a sidelong glance, shrugs, still looking annoyed. “Tim,” she says, accepting Julia’s decision to move on to other things. “You’re an editor, yeah?”

He nods, looking a little shocked that anyone’s included him in the conversation.

“Edited anything we’d heard of?” Enrique asks, shooting Laurel a grateful look that she’s smoothed over the situation.

He shakes his head. “We do mainly small press. Nothing that makes any best-seller or best of lists.” He glances at Julia, smiles softly. “We’re hoping Julia changes that, of course.”

Both Hector and Enrique roll their eyes, Frank glances at Laurel, thinks she’s doing an admirable job of keeping her face neutral and impassive.

“Of course,” she echoes, small smile sneaking onto her face as she attempts not to roll her eyes as well, fails. “How’d you come across Julia’s book?”

“Her master’s advisor is a good friend of mine,” Tim says, glancing quickly at Julia. Frank thinks he looks a little guilty, as though the real story is not quite as simple as the one he’s telling. Frank can sympathize; things with Laurel were, for a long time, not quite as simple as he liked to pretend. “She sent me Julia’s draft to look over, see if it was worth publishing,” he and Julia both chuckle slightly as though sharing some inside joke. “I liked the book so much I decided I wanted to publish it myself.”

“How much he offer you?” Enrique asks Julia. “You think it was more cause he wanted to get in your pants?”

Julia looks affronted and Tim makes a sharp, choked noise. Frank thinks that probably means it's a ‘yes,’ tries not to laugh because, well, a case could be made that Laurel got the job with Annalise for the same reason, even though he will swear until he dies that it wasn't the case; that it was cause he was mainly fascinated by how observant she was, how she noticed the things no one else did, the things other people tried to hide.

The two boys laugh again, pleased and teasing. “Good on you, Jules,” Hector tells her.

“More like good on Tim,” Enrique corrects, grinning wide. “He figured out the easiest way to get into Jules’ pants is excessive praise. I think it's cause she did gymnastics as a kid.”

Hector snorts as Laurel shoots them both an angry look. Julia looks a little hurt, glares down the table. Laurel’s grandmother says something then, seemingly asking her why Julia’s upset. He hopes Laurel lies as she explains things, gesturing between Julia and Tim and the boys.

Her grandmother appears to take the explanation in stride, then directs a string of words to Julia. Laurel, thank god, keeps up a running translation for Frank’s benefit.

“I told her Julia was upset because the boys were teasing her about her book. _Abuela_ wanted to know what the book was about, why the boys were teasing her,” Laurel explains rapidly, pausing to listen to Julia’s back and forth with her grandmother.

“And now she wants to know what the hell kind of plot that is,” Laurel laughs sharply, suddenly, swings her head to look at her grandmother, grinning down at the little woman. Hector and Enrique are laughing loud too, practically cackling with glee. Julia looks positively mortified, blushing furiously and staring hard at her plate. 

“She just asked if the book was supposed to be about marriage,” Laurel says, trying hard to stifle her laugh. Frank snorts, tries to disguise it as a cough when he sees how crushed Julia looks that both Laurel and her grandmother have so easily guessed the supposed subtlety of her book.

Laurel’s _abuela_ is glancing around confused at her grandchildren, trying to figure out what they find so funny, looking somewhere between confused, annoyed and insulted. Laurel leans over quickly and explains the joke, and her grandmother’s face switches to pleased and haughty.

He leans over to Laurel, speaks softly in her ear. “Hector told me yesterday he thought you were most like your dad. I think you’re probably most like her,” he says with a little nod towards her grandmother.

Laurel’s smile turns bitter, grim. “That’s one and the same Frank. Dad’s like her and I’m like him. And all three of us are fucked up.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” he tells her, tries to backpedal because he didn't mean it the way she’s taking it.

He probably shouldn't have said anything at all, he decides belatedly, because if there’s one thing Frank knows it's that the Castillos have a whole heaping pile of fucked up family dynamics going on that he can’t hope to untangle in four days. And he really, really should’ve known something was up when her grandmother seemed so pleased to see Laurel and so uninterested in Jorge, should’ve known that it meant something ugly and probably painful lurked under the surface.

He thinks it's strange, strange and telling that Laurel phrases it the way she does though, that all three of them; _Abuela_ Luisa, Jorge and Laurel are all alike, that Laurel and her grandmother seem to be close, to genuinely like each other, but both of them seem to share a long-standing feud with Jorge, a lingering tension, animosity and pain. He wonders what Jorge would have to say about the tension with his mother, wonders what he thinks is at the root of things, because he certainly doesn't recognize or won't acknowledge why Laurel is hurt and angry, that she even has a right to feel that way.

“It's ok,” Laurel assures him, though her voice goes flat and her shrug seems angry. “Even if you did; it's true.”

“Laurel,” he says, voice soft, taking her hand in his. “You’re not like him, not that way. I know that. And what's more, _you_ know that.”

She shrugs again, turns away from him and takes a long sip of wine, slipping her hand out of his, shrugging off his touch.

“Laurel,” he repeats, but now his tone is hard, insistent. “If you were; last night wouldn't’ve happened.”

She hums, still frowning and doesn't look convinced.

“And maybe you’re right, cause your _abuela_ seems like she’s kind of a badass. She stabbed a cartel boss, you only shot one.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, cracks into a smile, and she reaches out, takes his hand again. Frank thinks it must be a good sign that she can joke about this, joke about the terrible thing that she did, that was done to her. “Hector was the stabber; you think he’s like my _abuela_?”

Frank grins, glances at Hector, still needling Julia. “No way.”

“More importantly,” she says, her grin finally sliding somewhere teasing, dangerous. “Are you saying I’m not badass?”

“Princess,” Frank tells her with a smirk. “A real badass would never question her badassness. I bet your grandma’s never asked anyone if they thought she was hardcore.”

Something like a giggle escapes her. “She once asked me if I thought she looked like someone’s _abuela_. I think she was nervous she was going soft.”

“Little old ladies are the most dangerous,” Frank says, eyeing her grandmother, still in the middle of Hector and Julia’s ongoing argument about her book. “Hasn’t Grandma Rosa taught you anything?”

“Grandma Rosa only confirmed what my _abuela_ taught me,” she says, eyes flashing and Frank thinks they might just wind up in a battle over who's grandma is most intense. But then Paola saunters in and he gets distracted by the arrival of food and the complexities of passing the bowls of green beans and mashed potatoes and turkey.

Things continue calmly through most of the main course, until, as things wind down, one of Laurel’s uncles decides to ask about golf.

“So, Jorge,” the uncle asks. “Did you manage to finally win the golf tournament this year?”

An aunt rolls her eyes as she speaks. “If he had the trophy would be sitting in the center of the table like a centerpiece.”

“Did you lose again then?” the uncle asks Jorge. “That’s got to be something like six years of being unfairly robbed.”

“Not this year,” Jorge says, eyes darkening. “This year Adrian fucked up a putt, cost us two strokes. That is why we lost.”

“We lost by three, dad,” Adrian says placatingly from halfway down the table. Colleen, next to him looks up sharply, glances between her husband and father in law and Frank thinks she takes Adrian’s arm, says something soothing in his ear.

“And then,” Jorge continues, fixing a long glare at Adrian. “You sliced that drive on the seventeenth hole. You easily cost us another two there.”

Adrian looks for a moment like he’s going to argue, seems to think better of it. Frank thinks, that if it were Hector getting blamed for the loss, Laurel would be jumping into the fray, ready to defend her brother. Instead, she’s watching the exchange cautiously, frowning, but not looking like she’s prepared to intervene. Frank thinks that's probably a good call given their recent fight, the lingering tension between Laurel and her father.

“What was your score Jorge?” Tim asks from down the table, clearly not able to pick up that this is not a conversation he should be entering into. He should be able to, Frank thinks, even as an outsider to this strange family, should be able to recognize the way no one else at the table is even attempting to continue the conversation, address Jorge or defend Adrian.

“Sixty seven,” Jorge answers tersely. 

“Not bad,” Tim says, grinning affably as though now that he and Jorge have something in common, they’re best friends. Frank wants to tell the hapless idiot that he has no idea what he’s dealing with in Jorge, wants to tell Julia she's either stupid or doesn't really like Tim all that much if she didn't think to warn him about what he would be facing at Christmas dinner. Laurel didn't fill him in on much, but he at least went into Christmas knowing not to try and tangle with Jorge Castillo if he wanted to keep his head. “I played down here a few years ago with a buddy from college. Managed something in that range, sixty eight I think.”

“And who are you again?” Jorge asks, voice absolutely frigid. Frank doesn't know golf, couldn't explain more than the basics if he had a gun to his head, but he’s pretty sure there’s some casual golf bragging being done by Tim by the way Jorge’s face reddens, jaw going tight as he addresses the other man. And even if Julia didn't say shit to Tim, Frank thinks the guys a damn fool if he hasn't realized yet that talking golf with this man is a recipe for disaster, that he takes his score, his game, very, very seriously.

Tim swallows sharply. “Tim,” he answers, voice going cautious, as though he only now sees the danger, tries to figure out a way to escape the firing squad. “I’m Tim, Julia’s boyfriend.”

“Julia’s boyfriend,” Jorge repeats, fixing him with a look that makes Frank think Tim is about to be asked to leave dinner, maybe added to a list of people Jorge would like to see killed. “Well Tim, you should try to be more like Frank over here, and learn to keep your mouth shut if you’re not family.”

Ok, Frank thinks, that's probably a good sign for him, for Laurel too, really, if Frank is being held up as an example of good guest behavior, or someone Jorge regards admirably. He doesn't think Jorge would bother if he wasn't at least partially inclined to eventually thaw slightly towards his daughter, thinks he’d probably loop Frank onto his shit list if he was truly and permanently angry at Laurel. It's not however, a great sign for Tim.

Julia opens her mouth to protest, or stick up for Tim, seems to think better of it and closes it again, flashes Tim a look that might be an apology, might be a silent request for him to shut the hell up too.

“You are a guest here,” Jorge continues. “In my home. Not only that, but you are a guest of a guest. So, please, behave yourself and act like one.”

Tim colors, coughs weakly but then seems to rally, chin lifting to meet Jorge’s eyes in a surge of courage Frank can’t help but admire, even if he still thinks the man might be an idiot, might truly have a death wish. “I may not be acting like a guest, but you’re not acting like a very gracious host,” he tells Jorge and Frank could swear he hears a gasp from the entire table.

“Tim,” Julia says, voice tight and strained, eyes fixed firmly somewhere at her knees, as though she’s praying the ground swallows her up. “Shut up.”

His head whips towards her, startled and hurt. “Julia?” he asks, as though not quite believing he heard her right.

“Shut up,” she repeats, edging towards pleading. “Please, Tim.”

Laurel glances across the table at Tim, meets his eyes, the only one at the table seemingly willing to. He stares at her, frowning deeply, brows furrowed in what Frank decides in confusion. “Listen to Julia,” she tells him softly. “Don't dig the hole deeper.”

“Yeah man,” Tomas says from Tim’s other side, taking up the cause. “If you want to get into Julia’s pants ever again, you’ll leave it alone.”

“Yes Tim,” Jorge says derisively, apparently not willing to let Tim slink off with his dignity left intact. “Listen to your woman.”

When it appears Tim has left the fight, Jorge turns back to Adrian. “That would be good advice for you too, Adrian, I think. Colleen was a golfer at FSU, yes? Perhaps she can give you pointers for next year so I don't have to find myself a new partner if I wish to have any hope of winning.”

Frank flashes his eyes to Laurel, praying she lets his pretty damn sexist statement go, that she doesn't feel the need to call her dad out on it. She appears ignore it, takes a long sip of wine, though a deep frown etches itself onto her face. But she says nothing, meeting Frank’s eyes, mouth quirking slightly and he knows she wants to, would love to say something to her dad, call him out. He’s glad she’s smart enough not to, has had enough of arguments and pitched battles with her father, chooses to walk away. He’s glad too, that she’s pragmatic enough to know when to cut her losses against Jorge, because up till this point, Laurel’s mostly been taking the bait when it's laid out of her, walks blithely into the trap Jorge’s set for her even when she recognizes what it is, sees the jaws ready to snap closed. 

Adrian smartly, avoids the argument with his father. “I think I probably need a new set of clubs,” he says, smiling tightly. He pauses, sees the beginnings of something mean on his father’s face and continues. “But I can't blame the clubs for how I played. Sorry dad, next year I’ll get to sixty eight like Tim here.”

“I will hold you to that _mijo_ ,” Jorge tells Adrian.

He catches Laurel’s little eye roll, the snort she hides behind her hand, and he gives her a look, a question mixed with a plea to stay silent. He wonders if some of Laurel’s dislike of her brother, some of her animosity, comes not just from how he goes after her, directs the majority of his attacks towards her, but from how he emulates his father, believes that he can do no wrong, follows his lead on nearly everything. Frank thinks that may be part of it; that Adrian cannot recognize the darkness in his father, or does and chooses to embrace it, that he believes everything Jorge does is for the best, does what is good and proper and right. He thinks Laurel and Adrian are like oil and water because of how they view Jorge; the fact that Adrian can’t recognize that Laurel’s choice to reject her father, reject his violence, is not meant as an insult, doesn't mean she doesn't love him.

Adrian nods then, firmly and seriously. “Absolutely dad. I’m not going to let you down a second time.”

From the far end of the table Hector makes a noise, something like a scoff. Laurel shoots him a look this time, urging his silence. Enrique steps in, pours Hector more wine and makes some comment on the preparation of the cornbread that requires Hector’s technical knowledge.

Things go calm them and soon someone makes a joke about a Christmas present they received and just like that, it's as though the conflict never occurred.

Laurel’s grandmother, who, Frank expects, has only managed to glean snippets of the conversation turns to Laurel then, asks her something, eyes fixed on her son at the end of the table. Laurel answers, stiffly, like she’s trying to be diplomatic and failing.

The old woman sends a glare towards her son as Laurel speaks, says something harsh and angry when she’s stopped.

Laurel nods imperceptibly, but says nothing else. He thinks her grandmother repeats herself, wants some kind of acknowledgement from Laurel that Laurel isn't giving her.

Finally Laurel sighs, answers short and clipped, voice so low Frank thinks no one else hears. The little woman grins, laughs and pats Laurel’s arm affectionately, calls something out to Hector.

“She wanted me to fill her in, then demanded I agree with her that my dad is an asshole,” Laurel says tensely through gritted teeth.

“She doesn't seem scared of him,” Frank says, watching her joke with Hector about what he thinks must be the turkey.

“She’s not,” Laurel says, still on edge. “Can't understand why the rest of us might be cautious around him.”

“She makes things worse for you all later, doesn't she?”

Laurel makes a noise of agreement. “I love her, but dad won’t take things out on her,” she shrugs and Frank thinks there’s a whole universe of things that she tries and fails to say in that gesture, a thousand things he doesn't think he has the heart, or the courage, to ask her about.

“He is an asshole though,” Frank says, voice so low he knows no one else can hear, hopes none of her family reads lips.

“Yeah,” she says wryly. “He can disguise it when he wants to, but he really, really is.”


	39. Chapter 39

Dinner and then desert both finish without further drama, if Frank chooses not to count the very intense discussion that ensues over some telenovela that he’s pretty sure he’s never even heard of. It's not that he isn't into ‘the stories’ as he only half sarcastically calls them, but this one doesn't seem to be part of Laurel’s usual repertoire; the five or six telenovelas she turns on for background noise while she’s studying on the couch and which have slowly hooked Frank to an almost embarrassing degree, despite understanding nearly nothing of the dialogue and Laurel’s rule that he’s only allowed to ask for a translation if someone’s crying.

Halfway through the discussion he shares a tired bemused look with Tim who seems equally lost by the conversation.

“How much do you wish you still remembered high school Spanish?” Tim asks him wryly.

“I took French,” Frank answers. “Didn't really plan on dating a Mexican girl.”

Tim chuckles, inclines his head towards Julia. “She’s been trying to teach me, but it seems I’m only any good at English.”

“I mostly only know curses,” he says with a shrug. “Curses and food.”

“Seems about right,” Tim laughs again. “We actually started watching the news in Spanish so I could try to pick up more up.”

Frank makes a non-committal noise. He’s not sure he likes Tim’s assumption that just cause they’re white guys dating Latinas they have anything in common. He’s pretty sure they don't, would much rather talk books with Tim than compare notes about trying and failing to learn Spanish. Fortunately, Laurel seems to notice his discomfort.

“I’ll find you some clips online,” she tells him, taking his fingers, smoothing her thumb over the back of his hand. “Get you hooked.”

“You gonna find them with subtitles?” he asks. “Cause I love when you translate, babe, but I just wind up getting distracted.”

She laughs, leans over to knock her shoulder against his affectionately. “It's not my fault you can only focus on one thing at a time.”

“You mean,” he says with a smirk. “It's totally your fault I can only focus on you.”

Laurel’s smile is pleased, stays on her face even as she wades back into the conversation. He wants to be able to make her look like that all the time, happy and soft, like she’s holding onto some secret, like even as she turns her focus elsewhere he stays with her.

As dinner finishes they’re ushered by Paola further into the house to where a large bar is being manned by one of the white jacketed chefs, now co-opted into pulling double duty as bartender.

Hector grabs his and Laurel’s arms as they move towards the couches. “No way,” he tells them both, turning them around and towards the doors to the patio. “I’ve got cigars and rum, remember.”

“I thought the rum was mine,” Laurel says, though she lets her brother lead her towards the door.

“Not all of it,” Hector says, pulling a flask out of the inner pocket of his jacket, wiggling it enticingly before handing it to Laurel.

“Who you planning on sharing this with?” she asks, eyeing the flask warily. “Doesn't even look big enough to sustain you. And it's only half full.”

Hector rolls his eyes, scoffs. “That’s the one that's been sustaining me all evening. Enrique went to get the rest of the handle I stashed in the fridge.”

“And the cigars?”

Hector grins, reaches into another inside pocket and pulls out two cigars, handing one to Frank. He grins at Laurel. “I assume you didn't want one.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No thanks.”

“Well you can have the booze, we’ll have the smokes,” he says, herding them towards the patio.

Laurel sighs as they follow her brother. She looks tired, Frank thinks, and worn down, like everything about her has been rubbed raw, stretched thin and ready to break. He thinks something about her is too thin, too ragged, thinks he could see her bones and tendons and blood if he looked hard enough. He decides she’s likely to feel worse before things get better, before they make it back to Philly where she can mostly ignore the shittiness of her family, the shitty things they do back in Florida, can forget that what they do has anything to do with her.

They duck out onto the patio and Hector lights his cigar almost immediately, pulling a plastic lighter from the pocket of his slacks. One of the uncles is already out there, leaning heavy against the wall, dragging slowly on a cigarette, a glass of something dark in his other hand.

“Hey Miguel,” Hector greets.

“Caught me,” Miguel says, sounding a little guilty. “Don't tell _tia_.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Hector says with a grin. “What, you tell her you quit?”

Laurel’s uncle shrugs, takes another long drag. “I’m always telling Eva I quit. Maybe I will someday.”

“Gotta be quick or she’ll notice though, huh?” Laurel asks, grin flashing.

“Something like that.”

Hector hands Frank the lighter and he sparks the cigar, taking a long, experimental drag. He’s had Cuban cigars before, but it's been a while, and the smooth, pungent smoke hits him unexpectedly. He’s forgotten how much better they are than the cheap tobacco blends his dad and uncles sometimes smoke.

Laurel sidles up next to him, lets her body rest against his side, sniffs quickly at the air. “My dad used to smoke these when I was little,” she tells him softly. “Smelling them always makes me sad.”

“Why’d he stop?”

She shrugs into his shoulder. “I think he realized with everything else that might kill him, he didn't want to go out of his way to shorten his life. Or maybe he just thought addiction made him weak.”

Hector glances over at them sharply. “That’s not why,” he tells Laurel. “It's cause he always needs to out Anglo the Anglos.”

Laurel shoots him a look, incredulous and derisive. “Anglos love Cuban cigars.”

Hector shrugs. “When Anglos like them it's an affectation. When a Latino likes them, well,” he shrugs again. “It reminds the Anglos that he’s not really one of them.”

“That so?” Miguel asks casually, crushing his butt against the wall.

“Yeah,” Hector says. “You ever order tequila with a bunch of white people? It's like you're fulfilling every fucking stereotype they have.”

Miguel laughs. “I can’t even order rum, because then they assume it's cause I’m Cuban. I’m not fucking Cuban.”

“Good thing most Mexican beer is shit,” Laurel says with a smirk and a roll of her eyes, still curled tight to Frank’s side.

“You ever get shit for ordering pizza, Frank?” Hector asks wryly.

“Can’t say that I have,” he says, because he doesn't think anyone’s ever been given shit for ordering pizza, even hardcore Italians like him. “But that’s cause everyone loves pizza.”

Hector and Miguel both laugh and even Laurel rolls her eyes a little. “Everyone loves tequila too.”

Enrique steps out then, plastic handle three quarters full with clear rum. “Hey _Tio_ ,” he says when he sees Miguel. “You want some of this too?”

Miguel lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “I guess no one here’s gonna mistake me for a Cuban.”

“Frank might,” Laurel quips as her uncle takes the plastic bottle. He shoots her a look as he takes a pull, grins as he passes her the bottle.

“Where’d you get this Enrique?” Miguel asks as he passes it along. “I assume it was less than legal.”

“Ask Hec,” Enrique says with a quick nod of his head.

“I’ve got a guy,”Hector says casually, but Frank can’t help but hear the proud note that thrums low behind his voice.

“Oh you’ve got a guy,” his uncle mocks. “Don't we all have a guy. Does your father know about your guy?”

“No,” Hector says, anger creeping into his voice, his eyes going hard. “If he did, it would be his guy, not mine.”

“Sounds about right,” Miguel says with a slow nod, taking the handle back from Laurel.

“And I’d appreciate if you didn't say anything to my dad either,” Hector adds as Miguel takes another sip.

“Didn't say anything to me about what, _mijo_?”

All five of them look up sharply as Jorge steps out onto the porch, tumbler of what Frank decides is whiskey held lightly in his fingers, looking every inch the image of the wealthy urbane patriarch he tries so hard to cultivate.

Hector swallows sharply. “Nothing dad,” he says quickly, eyes dropping to his feet.

Against his, Laurel’s body tenses, thrumming like a wire. Frank grasps her fingers, squeezes sharply and hopes she relaxes, chooses to stay out of things.

“Obviously,” Jorge begins casually. “It was something. I would like to know what Hector.”

Hector looks quickly between his sister and cousin, then holds Miguel’s gaze for a long minute. “Just that I snuck some of your wine last night after Laurel, Frank and I got back. I was telling Miguel about how awesome it was,” he says apparently deciding that if he’s going to get into trouble it should be for something he doesn't care about.

“What bottle?” Jorge asks, eyeing Hector sharply.

“I dunno dad,” Hector says, scoffing, though Frank thinks he can hear the lie, hear the desperation in his voice. “I didn't really check the label. It was white.”

Jorge purses his lips, narrows his eyes at his son and takes a long sip of his drink. “No you didn't Hector.”

Hector swallows sharply again, glances nervously at Laurel.

“It was beer, dad, the Lambic,” Laurel cuts in smoothly. “And it was two bottles, and my idea, not Hector’s. Sorry.”

Frank flicks his eyes down to Laurel, tries not to look surprised or impressed, at the smoothness with which she can spin a lie, the way she can sound both defiant and apologetic, and how she sprinkles a little bit of the truth in to make it stick.

“Because of your hand?” Jorge guesses, something threatening to soften in his stony expression. “You were not given painkillers?”

Laurel watches her father’s face closely, Frank can practically see the gears turning in her head, the calculations she’s running as she weighs her next move. Only once she’s certain of something, though Frank’s hardly sure what, does she nod shortly.

He’s honestly a little shocked that her admission hasn’t made Jorge more angry, rather than less, doesn't think Laurel expected this reaction either. He wonders where the anger of a few hours ago has gone, wonders how it's faded so quickly; if it really has, or if it lurks, dangerous, under the surface, waiting to strike. “Yeah.”

“You should have insisted,” her father advises patronizingly.

Laurel shrugs. “Didn't think I needed them,” she continues to lie with a twist of her lips. “Until I did.”

“You are feeling better now, _mija_?” Jorge asks affectionately. “Less pain?”

Laurel nods, though Frank can hear the caution in her voice, even behind the small smile she gives her father. “It's not too bad.”

“Good,” he tells her. “But next time, if you must self-medicate, don't do it with my beer.”

“Of course,” she says. “Though I hope there’s not a next time.”

“Of course,” Jorge echoes.

Hector breathes a sigh of relief, blowing out a long breath as he finally decides he’s off the chopping block, has avoided his father’s wrath again. He turns to Enrique, passes his cigar to his cousin quickly, before his father notices, and shoots his uncle a look, pointedly glancing at the handle Miguel still holds in his fist. Frank half expects Jorge to notice, but the man’s attention is now fixed on Frank, peering intently at him with an expression that suggests a fighter looking for an opening in which to attack, looking for the weaknesses in Frank’s defenses, the softest, fleshiest, most painful spot in which to launch his attack.

“Frank,” Jorge says, leaving no doubt that he's going to be the next target. “I’d like to speak with you please.”

Frank can’t tell whether it's his body or Laurel’s that tenses, decides it's probably both of them.

“Dad,” Laurel says, somewhere between a plea and a warning. Her left hand goes to her mouth, Frank thinks she doesn't even realize she’s done it, scars stroking over her lips.

“It will not take long, don't worry,” Jorge tells her. “I simply need to follow up on the conversation Frank and I had yesterday.”

“No,” she says, her expression stubborn, final, leaving no room for argument. “Whatever you’re gonna say to Frank you can say to me too.”

Jorge’s eyes flash, the anger surging back into his expression, a cruel cast to his mouth. Frank wonders again at Jorge Castillo, at the anger that ebbs and flows in him, finds new targets, shifts and moves without any logic Frank can discern. He thinks Laurel must be able to, sometimes, thinks that must be how she can often direct her father’s attention to her without subjecting herself to the same level of anger. But not this time. “I _could_ ,” he allows coldly. “But I will not. Do you understand, Laurel?”

“No,” she says stubbornly, looking like she’s going to continue to fight. “I don't.”

Jorge shrugs, turns to Frank, effectively ignoring Laurel, cutting her off from the conversation. Laurel begins to say something else, but Jorge cuts her off with a dark look, and she swallows her words with a grimace. 

“Frank, if you will,” He gestures for them to go a little distance further in the yard, away from the rest of the crowd. Although there is a little stone bench nearby, Jorge doesn't sit, and Frank honestly can't decide whether that's a good thing because it means the conversation will be quick, or a bad one because it means Jorge intends there to be a fight.

“Frank,” Jorge begins when he thinks they’re far enough away. His voice is edged, harsh and clipped. “When we spoke yesterday I had only a very few requests for you, yes?”

Frank nods cautiously, unsure where the conversation is headed, but knowing it is nowhere good. He knows he still has time to kill Barrow, knows he hasn't made the situation worse, though perhaps Laurel and Engle have, can't think of a reason that Jorge Castillo has to be angry with him, why they must revisit the request.

“And one of those requests was that you didn't tell my daughter about our conversation.”

Oh. Well. That request.

“Did I not, Frank,” Jorge asks, voice low and and slow like he’s speaking to a stupid child, like he’s speaking to a man he wants to know has fucked up, and badly, just before he’s fired or maybe killed, certainly humiliated. “Specifically ask you not to mention our conversation to my daughter? Did I not tell you that it would hurt her, badly, to do so?”

Frank nods, meets Jorge’s glare, unflinching. He’s not going to be made to apologize for putting Laurel before her father, not going to let himself be punished for his loyalty to her, the fact that he was given an impossible choice and chose Laurel. “You did.”

“And why did you ignore that request? Are you not a man I can trust?”

“I didn’t say anything to Laurel,” Frank lies. He knows it's a smooth believable lie; he can see it in the way Jorge flinches, the way his eyes flick across the yard to his daughter, can see the doubt beginning to spring behind his eyes. “Even if I wanted to, what the hell would I say?”

“No?” Jorge asks, still not convinced. “Then why is my daughter suddenly angry at me for things that should have been long dead?”

He shakes his head, shrugs, tries for befuddled, bumbling goon. “I dunno,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with me.”

“You said nothing to her about Barrow, about an investigation?” Jorge’s voice is cold, angry, derisive.

“No,” Frank insists again.

“Frank,” Jorge says, voice low and deadly and filled with warning. “If I find out you have been dishonest, if you have violated my trust, I hope you know that I will have no choice but to make clear to you just how seriously I take dishonesty, disrespect. You understand me?”

And Frank, he knows he’s not a smart man, and he’s not an honest man, and that he’s certainly not a good man. But what he is, he’s a loyal man, unquestionably, unerringly; he knows this. And he’s not a man that’s easily threatened, easily put in his place, he’s not a man that will take a punch and stay down if he has the strength to get back to his feet, not a man who will cower in the face of greater odds. So this, this threat by Jorge Castillo, well, it gets his hackles up, even though he knows he should be smart and stay quiet, let it go. But he doesn't, he can’t.

“Laurel,” he calls loudly in the direction of the huddled group of shadows, still passing the plastic bottle by the door, eyeing him and Jorge warily. He ignores the angry hiss he hears from Jorge, the violence in his eyes.

One of the figures looks up, sharply, turns its head. He thinks it hesitates, before approaching slowly, cautiously.

“Laurel,” he says again as she comes close, catching her eye, hoping she knows where he’s going, hoping she knows the lie she must tell, hoping she can read him as well as he can read her. “I say anything to you about what your dad and I talked about yesterday?”


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another pretty long chapter, mostly just cause I didn't realize quite how long it was and wasn't really feeling breaking it up...I think breaking up a fight/confrontation/whatever halfway through always feels weird and stilted and awkward. So ya'll get the whole thing...yay?!  
> Basically this chapter is folks putting all their cards on the table and then still trying to bluff. And confused Frank being a damn rock, as always.

Laurel gives him a look that approximates confusion as she approaches, turns to her dad to let him see the same bewildered look. “What’s this about?”

“Did I say anything to you about what your dad and I talked about yesterday?” he repeats.

“Is that what this is about, dad?” Laurel prompts, fixing a long glance on her father.

“What did he say to you mija?” Jorge asks, still glowering at Frank.

“Dad,” she says softly, edging close to her father and tugging on his arm. “Frank didn't say anything to me.”

He turns his gaze for half a second to his daughter, before returning his glare to Frank. “Mija,” he says. “I know you love him, but there’s no point in defending this man. I know he told you.”

She tugs on his arm again, like a small child, pleading now. “How on earth can you know that dad? He didn't tell me anything.”

Jorge’s eyes go to Laurel again, linger there for a moment, judging her, assessing her words. “I’m not a stupid man,” he tells her. “I know the reason you have been so angry with me, the reason you said what you did after church.”

“No,” she insists, teeth running over the scar on her thumb, nervous and worried, glancing quickly to Frank, confirming that she’s adhering to the correct lie, swallowing thickly as though there’s a hard lump of worry niggling at the back of her throat. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Oh?” he asks, mocking now. “And what about your hand? I know it is not from breaking a glass.”

“No,” she agrees. “You’re right. But it has nothing to do with Frank. Whatever you said to him, he kept it to himself. It was Barrow, Doug Barrow, the Special Agent. Remember him? The one who questioned me and Hector after what happened. He sent a lackey after me last night.”

“Barrow sent a man after you?” And now Frank thinks he knows how it is Jorge has amassed the power he has, the wealth he has, and has stayed in that position of power and wealth for so long. Because there is something truly murderous in his voice now, something Frank has only heard a few times in his life, but that he recognizes somewhere deep within his savage, animal mind. Jorge’s voice, his eyes, the line of his body; they all scream violence, blood and savagery and fury, and Frank thinks that it is the only thing that makes sense that this man has risen to power and now stays in power by leaving bodies broken at his feet, that he kills without thought or regret when he feels he, or his interests, are being threatened. And Laurel, certainly, is something Jorge regards as his interest.

“Yeah,” Laurel nods, eager now that she can sense Jorge picking up the trail like a bloodhound, leading him away from Frank.

“Young guy. Wanted to talk to me about Nestor. That’s why I was so mad. I hate thinking about what he did.”

“What did he say to you?” Jorge asks her, eyes narrowed, his voice strained as though he fears what Laurel has been told, fears what she may know. “Barrow’s man.”

“Barrow’s back investigating you,” Laurel says shortly. Frank thinks she’s only trying to give away as little as possible, only what is necessary to get her father off Frank's back, turn his anger and suspicion away from him. He thinks that she tests, weighs, every word she speaks before it leaves her mouth, tries to judge the impact it will have, the potential damage for herself, for Frank, and possibly for Barrow. “Wanted me to talk, I assume to let something slip he can use to nail you.”

Jorge says nothing, just watches his daughter, assess her words.

“I told him to get lost,” Laurel offers softly, as though her answer had been in question, as though this will soothe her father’s rage. “Told him I don't know anything.”

“Did he give anything away?”

She shakes her head, gives a vague little shrug. “Not really. He’s still obsessed with Nestor.”

“And did he say anything about Nestor?” Jorge prompts. Frank suspects he’s fishing for what Laurel knows, if she knows about the quick, ignoble death of Nestor Serrano. “Does he know anything we don't?”  
Laurel frowns deeply, makes a strange squirming motion, suddenly uncomfortable. “I have no idea what you know, dad. Or what he knows. He mostly asked me about Alain, why I wrote him a couple times.”

“You wrote Alain?” Jorge asks, sounding strangled. Frank knows Laurel hears the tell, can see her wonder how much to ask, how to prompt her father into giving up what he knows about Alain, his release, and ultimately, his execution.

“Couple of times,” Laurel says like she’s confessing something, sounding guilty but also like a weight has been lifted from her once she’s spoken the truth, making her lighter. Frank wonders if this is another lie, or if she continues to sprinkle just enough of the truth, of her feelings in to make her father believe her. “I wanted to apologize. But he didn't want that, not from me, so I stopped.”

“He never wrote you back?” Jorge asks, and even Frank can hear the long beat of relief in his voice, that he thinks Laurel remains ignorant of Alain’s release, of his whereabouts. And most importantly, of the fact that he will not be writing anyone, ever again.

Laurel shakes her head, frowning, head bowed. But Frank can see the way she glances up, glances quickly at her father, reads the things he tries to disguise. “No,” she tells him. “Like I said, he didn't want to hear from me.”

“What on earth would you have to apologize for, mija?” Jorge asks, sounding confused, sounding angry, if Frank’s being technical. “If anything, it should be the other way around.”

Laurel shrugs, but now she looks angry too, brows pulled in tight. “But I’m never going to get one, not from anyone who owes it to me. And I wanted to give that to Alain, if I could.”

Frank knows it's coming, can sense the scoff before he hears it, grits his teeth and braces for Laurel’s anger to rise and meet her father’s.

“Here’s the thing dad,” she says, though there’s not the expected edge in her voice, no hard, flashing eyes. He's quickly learning that when Laurel thinks about her hand, about Nestor and Alain and her father and gutshots and the click of an empty chamber, she cannot now even summon the remnants of anger, cannot resurrect the long dead corpse of what was once her rage. The memory just summons up terror and grief, makes her feel small and powerless and weak. “The thing you don't get. You’re angry, still, about Nestor. And I’m not. All I want is to be able to forget about it.”

Jorge looks from Laurel to Frank, back again. “You see,” he says to Frank cruelly, gesturing at Laurel, with one gesture cutting her out of the conversation as though she isn't there, doesn't matter, as though what she wants, thinks, is of no importance. “You see why I asked what I did of you. This is why, Frank.”

Frank’s not sure what comes over him, not sure what possesses him, but he knows, with a shocking suddenness, that he is not going to keep silent any longer. If he and Laurel are a goddamn team, then sometimes he has to protect her; protect her from other people and protect her from herself. It’s been killing him to see her step into the firing line, take punches meant for other people, he’s sick of seeing not one person listen to what Laurel actually wants, what her thoughts and feelings and desires are.

He knows he’s doing the same thing, really, substituting what he thinks she should want for what he thinks she probably actually does, but he can’t help himself. And if that makes him a monster then fine, if it makes him no better than her father, he’ll live with that too. Because Laurel will never say it herself, and Frank decides someone needs to. Someone needs to just make it clear to Jorge where his daughter stands, make it clear he can’t use her as an excuse any longer. 

“No,” Frank says, voice harsh. He squares his shoulders, his stance, feels like he’s about to take a punch, about to start swinging. He’s just not sure whether the hit will come from Jorge or Laurel. “I don't see. I think this makes it damn clear that what you asked me, Laurel doesn't want. That what you asked me to do is the exact damn opposite of what Laurel really wants; will hurt her rather than help her.”

“You think Barrow hasn't hurt her? What about what happened to her hand?”

“Dad?” Laurel cuts in, her voice harsh and ragged, but steady and certain. Frank thinks now that the door has been cracked, she sees no alternative but to burst through it, to keep going rather than look back, accept reality rather than try to change it. He thinks that's the remarkable thing about Laurel; that she accepts reality, as shitty as it may be, and keeps moving, keeps adapting and adjusting. “What did you ask Frank?”

When Jorge doesn't answer, she begins again, her eyes flashing, a challenge in every line of her body, daring him to tell her the truth, daring him to answer her, to prove that he will act for her benefit and not his, for once. “What was it, dad?”

“Laurel,” Frank begins, not taking his eyes from Jorge. He doesn't think her father will answer, so he will. He hates himself, hates Jorge for letting it get to this point, that Laurel must rip the last of her armor away, must bare herself, bloody and raw, to her father in the hopes that something will change, that he will just listen to her and what she wants.

He doesn't think he wants to know how Laurel will react, to his decision to cut through the layers of lies and deceit and to lay all the cards out on the table. He doesn't know if she will approve, if she won't decide he’s a worse monster than her father, because he knows what she wants, and what she wants is not this, but he plows ahead anyway. He doesn't want to take over her fight, cripple her battle plans, her strategy; but he has to say something, has to cut the bullshit. But, more than that, more than he wants to make clear to Jorge his deceits, his manipulations, his violence in the name of protecting his family are all meaningless, he knows has to give Laurel the choice, the choice to go forward or to stop, because she has already been denied a choice too many times. “You wanna know what your old man and I talked about yesterday?”

For a minute he’s not sure she’s even heard him, not sure his words register. She staring at her father, her expression fixed, frowning so deeply it's like Frank’s looking at another person. But then she turns, her gaze settling on Frank. He could swear her eyes soften a degree, something in her responding to him, reaching out to him. She only nods. He’s not sure she has the words to speak, not sure she could summon them if required. Because, even though she knows, knows already what was asked of Frank, having it out, acknowledged, throws a whole new wrench into things.

“He asked me to stop Barrow’s investigation. That something you want?”

Laurel knows what he’s going to say, has already heard it from him once before, but she still musters a glare at her father as Frank speaks; he thinks she still looks betrayed, hurt. “No, that's not something I want.”

“You know what I think he was really asking me?” Frank asks.

She nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“Laurel,” Jorge cuts in, and there’s the low rumbling of a threat in his words, like the cracking of knuckles, like the impact of a body on the floor, but also something that sounds beseeching, desperate.

“No dad,” Laurel says, speaking over him. “I’m gonna talk. And you can listen. Or not. But I’m gonna say it anyway. I don't want you to kill anyone, and I especially don't want you to have Frank kill anyone. You wanna protect me; don't send the man I love to kill someone. And definitely don't tell him he's doing it for me.”

“Laurel,” Jorge starts again. “Mija, just listen.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, raises her chin, daring her father to explain, daring him not to lie to her. Her eyes are cold again, hard and closed off, as though she’s hidden herself behind a wall of glass and steel so that she can’t be hurt by whatever’s going to be said. Frank thinks it's a lie, can see the lie in Laurel’s face; her barriers are paper and silk, there is no way they can withstand the attack to come.

“Barrow is trying to destroy me. He doesn't want to see my fined, or jailed. He wants to see me dead. I am simply showing him the same courtesy.”

“But why?” she asks vehemently. Frank thinks that if Jorge would just be honest, truthful, with his daughter she would forgive him anything. “Why is he after you again after years?”

Jorge laughs. “He has never not been after me, cariña. Sometimes there is waiting, sometimes there is battle.”

“But why now, why’s he trying so hard to nail you now. What changed?”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Liar,” Laurel hisses, something deadly in her words. She sounds like her father, Frank thinks; like sharp teeth and rage, like violence painted over with only the thinnest veneer of civilization. “You know. And I know.

“I don't. I have no idea why he’s after me again.”

“You must. Maybe not until you knew he talked to me, but you have to know now. Nestor. And Alain.”

“Laurel,” he says again, and if Frank didn't know better he would almost believe the innocence in Jorge’s voice. “Of course he is after me about Nestor. About what was done to you and your brother.”

“No dad,” Laurel says sharply, watching him closely as she continues, trying to spot the truth from his face, his eyes, his body. Frank thinks if anyone can do it, it will be Laurel. “About what you did to Nestor and Alain. Two months ago. In New Mexico.”  
It is almost surprising, almost admirable, how little Jorge gives away. His eyes widen slightly, nostrils flare and something works rapidly in his jaw, a little jump or twitch that he quickly controls. He doesn't blink. “I have no idea, mija, what you're talking about,” he tells her, smoothly.

“I’m not wearing a wire dad,” she says, something desperate clinging now to her words like drops of rain, refusing to be sloughed off. “I just want to know why.”

“There is no why, Laurel,” he says, slowly, calmly, like he’s speaking to a hysterical child. “Because I didn't do anything to Nestor or to Alain. Nestor is in the wind, you know that. And Alain is upstate. You know that too.”

And there it is, Frank thinks, the lie that will topple Jorge Castillo, the overplaying of his hand. He, like everyone else, underestimates Laurel, what she knows, what she can do with what she knows. She’s already told him she wrote Alain, had continued interest in him, his case, and yet, her father assumes she is unaware of his release.

Frank knows, without a doubt, with a certainty he rarely feels, that Jorge is not the type of man to be unaware of a potential enemy’s release date; that is not how he obtained his current position, and certainly not how he retains it. Even if Jorge had nothing to do with Alain’s long, slow death, he would have known the man was no longer incarcerated. And, if he had nothing to do with it, as he professes, there would be no reason to lie, no reason to tell Laurel that Alain was still inside. He thinks Laurel realizes this too, has made the connections even faster than he has, sees her eyes fix on her father, sees left hand tighten once into a fist and then release.

“No, actually,” she tells Jorge, adapting her voice to his tone, smooth and unconcerned. “I don't. Because Barrow had some interesting photos to show me. One, in particular. What reason could anyone other than you, or someone acting on your orders, have to give Alain these before they killed him?” Laurel asks, holding her left hand out to her father, letting him stare at the raised white scars on her fingers, letting him fix her eyes on the remnants of what was done to her. “Why would anyone else do that?”

Jorge shrugs, holds Laurel’s glare, doesn't even flinch at the sight of the scars on Laurel’s fingers. “For the same reason that Nestor did it to you. To cause pain, I would assume.”

“No,” Laurel corrects flatly, eyes narrowing even further. Frank wonders how she isn't angry, how she isn't raging at her father’s seeming inability to understand what was done to her, and why; how he can miss so fundamentally the very reason she has the scars on her fingertips. Frank wonders too, if it makes her hate her father, hate Nestor Serrano just a little bit more because the cuts were given to her for nothing, her father completely missing the point, the purpose she received them at all, rendering her pain utterly meaningless, just nothing more than agony for its own sake. “He did it to send a message. Just like you did.”

“Laurel,” Jorge tells her, an impatient edge now sounding low in his voice. “Is there anything I can say to you that will convince you I had nothing to do with whatever you think happened to Nestor. Or Alain.”

“You know what happened to them,” Laurel insists. “You tortured Alain like his dad tortured Hector and me; you made Nestor watch. And then you killed him.”

Her father sighs, long and low. “I’m sorry to hear that someone got to Nestor before I was able to, but I'm not glad he’s dead.”

“And Alain?” Laurel prompts.

“I’m very sorry Alain is dead too, if he is in fact dead. And that this wasn’t some fabricated ploy by Agent Barrow.”

“It wasn’t,” Laurel says, eyes darkening furiously.

“And you know this how?”

“Because I know how to Google, dad,” she hisses accusingly. Frank startles, can’t decide whether this is another lie designed to coax her father into the truth or she found some moment somewhere to run a quick news search, confirm the deaths. “I found news articles that confirm it. Vic's identified and everything. The Feds didn't fake this one.”

“And did this news report say that I was responsible for these deaths?” he mocks. If anyone asked him, which they won't, Frank would have told Jorge that this is the exact wrong move; if there’s one thing Laurel hates it's not being taken seriously, being dismissed with a humoring chuckle. But he continues on anyway. “Because, if not, I don't know how you can be so sure it was me.”

“Because I’m not stupid, dad,” she says, frustration clear in the way she runs her hands through her hair, in the way her frown cuts hard lines into her face. “Because I know you.”

“I do not have to justify or explain myself to you Laurel,” he cuts her off harshly. “So I will say it one final time; I had nothing to do with whatever lie you have been told about Nestor. You want to blame someone, I know, for what was done to you. And because you cannot blame him, you blame me. But I did not do this thing and I will not stand for you to accuse me any further.”

She sighs, the sound half like a growl. “Fine. But I know what you did and I know what you wanted Frank to do. I’m not letting you pretend your hands are clean, not letting you fool me into thinking you're innocent. I’m not doing that anymore. I’m done pretending with you.”

“You’re done pretending with me?” Jorge echoes, that low, deadly quiet creeping into his voice. “But I have never pretended with you, never lied to you. And I cannot understand why you would believe that agent over your own father, why you would have so little trust in me.”

“Because I know what you are,” she repeats. “And I know what Barrow is. And if he’d known killing Nestor and Alain would be all it took to get to me, well, he wouldn’t’ve waited ten years for it. But you,” Laurel continues. “You couldn’t’ve acted any sooner, because you needed Alain to get to Nestor. And it wasn't anyone else who killed them, just you. I know you dad, I know your style. And I know it was you.”

She speaks with finality, with certainty, leaving no room to argue, though Frank suspects Jorge will anyway, just to get the last word in. She gives one final, vicious glare at her father, turns and stalks away, leaving Frank trailing after her.

“Laurel,” her father calls casually after she’s gone a few steps, though there’s a glint in Jorge’s eyes that reminds Frank of the shine of a muzzle in the moonlight, a threat only casually concealed. “You say you know me and that may be true. But you don't know Agent Barrow. He is not the ally you seek. He will protect you from nothing, and if you do what I suspect you are planning, I, too, will protect you from nothing. So consider your choices carefully.”

She nods once, stiffly. “You forget though, that I’ve been protecting you for nearly as long as you’ve been protecting me,” she tells him, again mimicking his unconcerned tone, as though the two of them are talking about the weather or who looked especially ridiculous at church, blithe and casual.

Frank thinks their long, slow battle is more like a duel than a true fight; it appears polite and civilized on the surface until someone is stabbed through the heart, until someone looses their arm in a shower of arterial spray. And then it becomes more bloody, more vicious than any bare knuckle fight that doesn't even pretend at this veneer of civilization. He thinks Laurel would probably be better off if she conducted herself like a brawler, attacking with all she has instead of trying to operate within a set of rules her father has seemingly constructed in order to see her fail, so that she will encounter defeat at every turn. He wants to tell her that to his admittedly limited view, the only way she can win here is to stop the fight, to walk away and consider that a win; instead of continuing the fight in the hopes that she will get lucky against a bigger, stronger, faster opponent who knows that the rules are to the death when Laurel is only playing to first blood.

“Is that what you think?” Jorge asks her, voice low and laced with malice. “Is that what you think you’ve been doing?”

“It is what I’ve been doing,” Laurel insists. “Shutting up, protecting you even when it hurts me.”

“You think your silence matters Laurel?” he presses on, mocking, his grin splitting his face into something ugly, something cruel. “You think you matter?”

Laurel falls back half a step, almost like she’s been slapped, mouth falling open and her breath hitching slightly. “I know I matter,” she insists, though there’s a note of doubt, of fear Frank thinks he detects.

“You don't,” Jorge counters instantly. “You think anything you’d say would endanger me? Would endanger what I’ve built? You know nothing of any import, could not cause me even a moment of concern.”

“I know where the bodies are buried, I know your routes, I know your methods,” Laurel pauses, bites her lip slightly, looks down, away from her father, fingers twisting slightly in nervousness or trepidation or fear; Frank isn't sure, can't even begin to assign a name to the things he thinks she is feeling. “It wouldn't be easy, I know that,” she says, voice hard enough to cut glass. “But I could be a real fucking thorn in your side.”

“Do not even consider going against me Laurel,” her father tells her, voice like the muzzle of a gun pressed against the small of her back. “Do not think for a single second that it would end in anything but disaster for you.”

She nods, chin and jaw tight. “I know,” she agrees. “For both of us. You know that too. That's why we’re having this conversation.”

“No,” he answers sharply. “We’re having this conversation, mija, because this is a warning. Because if you do something truly stupid, I will not be able to protect you. I may be angry at you, angry at your obstinance, at your insistence on blaming me for every bad thing that has happened to you, but I do not want to see you hurt. You know what will happen if you talk.”

She nods stiffly. “I do. But sometimes you gotta keep going anyway.”

“What is it you hope to accomplish?” Jorge asks. “If you want to kill yourself there are easier ways.”

Laurel shakes her head, blinks furiously, like she’s blinking back tears, fighting against her emotions. “I want you to stop hurting us. I want you to put us first, stop using us. You asked Frank to kill Barrow for you. He’s not some hired gun, he’s mine. How can you say you love me and ask him to kill for you?”

“Is that what this is about?” Jorge asks incredulously, face coloring. “Your angry I offered your boyfriend a job? To perform a routine task?”

“To kill someone,” Laurel hisses. “Asking him to risk not just jail but the death penalty for killing a Fed. For you. How can you care so little about me, about what I want, that you would ask Frank to do that? How can you ask Hector to give up the one thing he loves to you, so you can use his restaurant to launder, risk what he’s managed to build and turn into something good?”

Jorge lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “You act as though Frank and Hector have no choice, no free will.”

“You know exactly what you're doing dad,” Laurel insists fixing him with a long, calculating glance, looking almost like she doesn't know if she wants to continue or not, but barrels on anyway, eyes widening as she realizes what she's saying, how far she’s allowing herself to go. “That's why you wanted to use Hector’s restaurant. Because he’ll never resist you for long and you know it. You know how badly he wants you to approve of him. And using his place will give you leverage over him. And it's why you roped Frank into your revenge scheme; why you told him he’d be acting for me, that killing Barrow would help me. But I know you were just trying to get something to hang over his head, something that you can use to control me, get me to listen to you.”

“That's absurd, Laurel,” he tells her, eyes flashing, words low like a warning, urging her to stop or she will face disaster. “Do you really think I’m some kind of evil mastermind?”

“I think you need to control us, I think you wish we were employees and not your children, think that would be easier for you, because you don't understand when we don't fall in line. That's what I really think.”

“Everything I do is to protect you,” Jorge insists, and something in the way he says it rings true, genuine in a way that nothing he’s said before has.

“You keep saying that,” Laurel exclaims, sudden heat bursting into her voice. “But you don't know what it means. You don't let us have our own thoughts, our own desires. You think that what you want is the only option, the only course.”

“Because I know what must be done. You have no idea what is needed to survive.”

“I know that there’s no universe where it was necessary to put a gun in your teenagers hands, no conceivable reason to use a third grader to mule for you. No reason beyond greed and selfishness,” Laurel speaks as though she’s pronouncing her father’s guilt, as though there’s no room for him to change her mind, as though the die has been cast. “That’s not protecting your family; that’s dragging them down with you, tying them to your fate, good or bad, preventing them from escaping. Ever.”

“Mija,” Jorge says, voice suddenly strangled.

“No dad,” she says wearily, and Frank hears a little crack shoot through her voice, young and scared and pleading, like she’s on the verge of tears. “You can’t explain that. You can’t. You should have protected us. But you made us a part of the horrible things you do, made us do so many horrible things so we’d be part of it, couldn’t escape you. You didn't even give us a choice.”

“Of course you had a choice,” Jorge erupts, stepping forward towards Laurel. Frank tenses, moves closer to her, angles his body so that he can easily slide between Laurel and her father, hands tightening into fists at his side. But Laurel stands her ground, lifts her chin defiantly, her own hands tight at her sides, refusing to flinch. “I let you walk away didn't I?”

“And you’ve spent seven years trying to convince me I made a terrible choice. You didn't let me walk away; you just let me think I had. And now you’re trying to blackmail me, trying to tie Frank to you so that I can’t escape either.”

“Or perhaps I simply needed assistance from an unfamiliar face?”

Laurel scoffs, rolls her eyes as she shakes her head sadly. “No dad. You didn't need to ask Frank. But you wanted him to do it, because you could use killing Barrow against me too, could make Frank another person who owed you, who couldn't escape you.”

“If you truly feel that way Laurel, then please, by all means leave,” Jorge tells her. Frank detects a mixture of mockery and derision and rage racing through his words, jumbling together in a concoction that makes Frank flinch, makes him tense and look to Laurel, look to her reaction. “Why would I want a daughter who only resents me, who thinks the worst of me?”

Frank thinks she’s going to seize onto the offer of escape, thinks he’s going to see a burst of clear, bright hope flash across her eyes. Instead she frowns, deep and sad. “That's not it at all. I don't think the worst of you,” there's a pause, a hiccup in her words, like she almost catches herself before she continues on, almost holds back her words, can’t bring herself to voice her thoughts. “I love you dad, I just don't know if I can keep doing this. I can't be a part of the things you do and I can't accept them. I don't even know if I can forgive them. But I love you, I do.”

“That is not love mija,” Jorge tells her. “You cannot love me and hate everything about me. No, you are trying to have it both ways again. And that is impossible.”

“Can’t we have a truce? Or something? Can’t you let me live my life and I’ll let you live yours?”

“Laurel,” he cautions her. “You have been considering selling me out, if you haven't already. That is not a truce. That is you positioning yourself as my enemy.”

“I’m not gonna sell you out dad,” she tells him, uncrossing her arms, holding them out wide, open, trying to convince him of the truth of her words. “I thought about it, I did, but I’m not going to. Whatever you have with Barrow, I don’t want to be part of it, don’t want to help him. I promise.”

“What is it you want then?” he asks, practically sneers at her indecision, at what Frank thinks he probably sees as her weakness rather than her compassion, her empathy, her insatiable need to fix thing she sees as broken.

“I don’t know,” she admits, arms still extended out by her sides, practically imploring her father now, to understand, to give some ground. She looks like she wants to take his hand, force Jorge to stay, speak with her until she gets the admission or apology that she craves. “I want to you to admit what you’ve done, what you did to us. I want you to show some remorse. But you won’t. So I don’t fucking know what I want, why I’m even bothering; bothering to be angry, to be hurt, why I’m talking to you at all. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What do you want me to tell you mija?” he asks. “There’s nothing I can say that you will accept as an apology, nothing I can say that will change anything that’s happened. Even if I wanted to.”

Laurel nods solemnly, hugs her elbows tight. “I don’t think there’s anything you can say. I think it’s too late.”

Jorge purses his lips, eyes going cold, unblinking, like a reptile’s. “Then I will caution you again. Do not do anything stupid. You want to avoid more violence, more pain? You wish to avoid any harm coming to Frank? Then do not cross me, Laurel. Do not even entertain that thought that you should go against me,” he pauses, looks from Laurel to Frank and back again, cruel cast to his mouth. “I do not give out second warnings. Nestor learned that. You would do well to learn the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As fun as that was, this isn't the last you'll see of Laurel's dad tho...and next time he won't be quite so warm and fuzzy... :/


	41. Chapter 41

This time it’s Jorge that turns and goes, leaving them alone at the far corner of the yard.

Laurel sits, heavily, against the stone bench, sighs, the sound heavy too. “I really, really wish I could just hate him,” she says, voice low. “It would make this so much easier.”

Frank just nods mutely, doesn't think there’s much else he can say.

“I wish I could trade him and Elena in for your parents,” she adds then, cracking a small, teasing smile. “Though not _your_ parents, I guess. Incest would be weird.”

His smile goes crooked. “Good to know you’re not suggesting we go full Game of Thrones.”

Laurel laughs shortly. “Much as I love your folks, I think I’d still choose you.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Are things gonna be ok with him?” Frank asks, nodding in the direction of the house, of Jorge's retreating back.

She shrugs vaguely, lets out a long breath. “I don't know.”

“You’d know if he was gonna come after you, right?”

“I don't know,” she repeats, shoulders curling in. “I've never threatened to burn him before.”

“You still think you're gonna do it,” he asks. “Burn him?”

Laurel nods, looking a little shocked when she does, as though she wasn't sure of her intentions until her body settled the matter for her.

“We’ll give it a go tomorrow then.”

She nods again. “But only if Barrow can deliver.”

“And only if he’s not playing you,” Frank reminds her.

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” he says, sitting close beside her, catching her wrist in his fingers. “I needa call my ma, wish her a Merry Christmas. You wanna say hey?

Laurel’s grin goes wide, pleased, slipping her hand into his, squeezing his fingers in her own. Frank thinks she looks half-surprised at the offer, as though she still doesn't entirely trust that she’s secure in her place with his family, still fears she isn’t truly a part of the sprawling, chaotic Delfinos, only allowed into their close-knit fold because she’s dating him, and not because his family loves her for herself, for her wit and kindness and intelligence. He’s not sure what it's gonna take to convince her otherwise; that he suspects his family’d be tempted to choose her over him if they ever split, that she fits into the fierce raucousness like she belongs and half his relatives no longer even realize she’s not actually related to them yet.  
Maybe when they get back to Philly, maybe when they’re sitting in his mom’s kitchen and she’s fussing over Laurel’s hand, telling her to put vitamin E on the stitches so it doesn’t scar as badly, plying her with extra helpings of turkey and ziti and cookies, his dad just giving her a pleased and proud smile, sliding his drink across the table to her because he knows the markers of a bar fight when he sees one. Maybe then she’ll get it, see the contrast between her family and his; or rather, between the family she was born to and the one that’s chosen her, chosen her not just because Frank’s chosen her, but because all the Delfinos did. Maybe then Laurel will finally get that his family loves her and they want her and it's ok for her to love and want them back.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he says, his smile slipping to match hers. After the past two days here, in this house, with these people, he thinks Laurel needs his family more than he ever has. She needs people who love her without reservation, without qualification, who don't want her to be something more or different, who don't love her because of what she can do for them or how thoroughly she immolates herself on their behalf, even if she still sometimes fears his family is too good to be true.

“Do you think,” she asks, small, nervous smile slipping onto her face, like she’s already anticipating she’ll be rejected. “We could still go to dinner with them on Sunday? After we get back?”

Frank nods, hopes he’s reassuring her. “Absolutely. My mom’ll be dying to get rid of her leftovers by then. And I bet she has a pile of gifts for us.”

“You think she’ll have some cookies to spare?” Laurel asks eagerly.

“I think that's pretty much a given,” he says, rolling his eyes at his mom’s over-enthusiasm for baking around the holidays.

“And we can tell my folks about how you're tryin’ to make an honest man outta me.”

She rolls her eyes, smiles sarcastically at him. “Is that what I was doing? And here I thought I was just trying to marry you.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

She practically giggles, bites her bottom lip and rolls her eyes again. “More like tomato, formerly slutty, now slightly whipped tomato.”

“Isn't that what I said?” he asks, with a smirk.

Frank slips his phone out of his pocket, goes to press the speed dial to his folks; number three after Laurel and Annalise. He had a big issue when he first changed his phone settings to make Laurel number one, kept calling her thinking he was getting Annalise and leaving cryptic voicemails when she didn't pick up cause she was in class. 

And even though he’d told her before then about Lila, about the other terrible things he’d done for Annalise and Sam, that was the start of how Laurel pieced together just how often he was asked to carry out these unsavory tasks, just what exactly he did for Annalise the majority of the time beyond looking dapper and scaring 1Ls, because she was too damn smart _not_ to put the pieces together; certainly not after she’d spent the first eighteen years of her life listening to similar veiled conversations about violence and less than legal activities, and, he knows now, participated in one or two herself. And certainly not after his admission that he’d killed, disposed of things, planted evidence in the past, for the Keatings and for one of the local Philly mobsters. She simply hadn't realized just how often these requests were made of him, thought when he’d admitted what he did he’d meant on an infrequent, extraordinary case basis. Frank had assumed she’d thought the worst of him; that murder, bribes and threats were an essential job duty, hadn’t thought to correct her assumption about frequency. But she’d believed otherwise, thought he was mostly telling her about his past, about occasional and terrible requests. And then there were the voicemails, probably three in the first week.

And then there was probably a week or two of being completely frozen out if he wasn't being screamed at, by both Laurel _and_ Annalise, before he finally grovelled sufficiently that Laurel even allowed him to begin setting things right, starting with telling the truth about the terrible things he did, begging, pleading and promising that he’d never keep a single thing from her again. That he’d tell her every time he was asked to do something in the shadows, not the details, not always, but that he’d be open with her, share not just his past, but his present and future.

And he’s kept that promise so far, though it took a long, long time before she didn't look at him with a mix of anger, heartbreak and trepidation. He knows why now, but at the time it made him angry as hell that she was so stubborn, so unwilling to just let things go and pretend they didn't happen, unlike how she’d been ready to start jumping his bones again almost immediately after he ditched Sasha and told Laurel she was the one he wanted. But after lying about Lila for so long, after finally trusting him again after he’d confessed that he helped set in motion the disaster of her 1L year, she was doubly burned when she realized he hadn't told her everything. He knows now why she’d had such a hard time forgiving him a second time, given what he knows now about the lies and deceits and multitude of crimes she’d had kept from her until they were laid at her feet. 

Frank still cringes when he thinks of that, cringes even now. Laurel sees his grimace, gives him a quizzical look, brow furrowed.

He shakes his head, tries grinning at her. “Trying to remember which number they are,” he explains at her little frown.

“You’re getting old, Delfino,” she tells him, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth.

He smirks. “Good thing I bagged me a hot young wifey to take care of me.”

“You call me ‘wifey’ again and you can kiss that plan goodbye,” she threatens, and even though she’s smiling, Frank can hear the edge of warning in her voice, knows she might just follow through on it because he’s come to realize Laurel hates overly demonstrative terms of endearment. She’ll tolerate ‘babe’ certainly, ‘princess’ most of the time, but only if he doesn’t try to use it when he’s mad or frustrated, and maybe ‘sugar tits’ if she thinks he’s being particularly sexy or charming. But Frank doesn't think he can come up with anything else Laurel’s ever consistently allowed him to call her without looking more than a little annoyed. He figures he’ll avoid trying ‘the little woman’ or ‘the old ball and chain’ on her if he knows what's good for him. Well, maybe he’ll only hold off until the next time he’s got his head buried between her legs and she’s in no position to try and stop him.

She catches his smirk then. “Seriously, what’s with you?” she asks, giving him a skeptical look, like he’s half lost his mind.

“Just thinking about all the awesome things I can call you when we get hitched.

Again, Laurel looks surprised and pleased, still kind of shocked at the thought that they’re engaged now, that he wants to marry her, is just as eager to do so as she is.

He presses the speed dial, then the speaker, listening to the dial tone sound once, twice, giving Laurel a little weary eye roll.

“Yeah?” he hears a voice, clipped, on the other end of the line. “What?”

“Dad?” he asks, unsure what male member of the family he’s gotten on the line over the background noise of the call. His family is obviously still celebrating, and it appears the adults have broken out the liquor.

“Frankie?” his dad asks. “That you?”

“Yeah,” Frank confirms. “Me and Laurel. We wanted to wish you guys Merry Christmas since we can't be there this year.”

He hears his dad huff. “How you liking Florida, Frankie?”

Frank glances at Laurel, they share a little grin at his dad. “It’s alright. Nothing like Philly. I think we’ll stick with you guys on Christmas from here on out.”

“Good,” his dad says. “Your ma’s missing you somethin’ fierce. I don't think you’ve ever been away from home on Christmas.”

“What, you tryin’ to guilt me here?”

His dad laughs. “That obvious, huh?”

“How was dinner?” Frank asks, rolling his eyes at Laurel, trying to ease the little worried frown from her face, make her realize his dad’s just joking, doesn't mean anything by it when he gives Frank grief about having gone to her family’s. “Sounds like the party’s just getting started.”

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling a little. “Your brother brought over a bottle of limoncello.”

“Who, Nicky?” Frank asks. “Or did Joey finally decide to start sharing his booze?”

His dad huffs. “Nicky. Anyway Frankie, how’s my girl? She with you?”

Frank laughs and he can’t help notice Laurel’s small, twisting smile, her beaming eyes. “Yeah dad,” Frank confirms, raising his eyebrows at Laurel. “She’s right here.”

“Laurel!” his dad calls, loudly over the phone, as though he’s trying to shout straight from Philly to her. “How you doin’ darlin’?”

“I’m doing ok,” she tells him. “Merry Christmas Sal.”

“You too darlin’,” he says. “You gonna drag Frank over on Sunday? We’d love to have you, so we’ll tolerate seeing him.”

“I’m gonna try. I’m regretting I dragged Frank down with me; I miss Delfino Christmas.”

“Course you do,” his dad says, sounding a little pleased. “Delfino Christmas is the best Christmas. Plus, you get to spend time with me.”

Laurel giggles a little. “That’s true, Frank’s got nothing on you.”

“I won't tell him you like me better if you don't,” he says, voice dropping low, not realizing Frank’s got them on speaker. Frank rolls his eyes and Laurel bites her lip, tries not to laugh. 

“Deal,” she tells him.

There’s a commotion on the other end of the line and suddenly Frank’s mom sounds over the call. “Frankie?”

“Yeah Ma,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

“How’s Florida?” she asks, echoing his dad’s first question. “Laurel’s people treating you good?”

Frank hums vaguely. “Not bad, but we’re definitely missing you guys.”

“Yeah?” she asks. “So come over Sunday Frankie. I know your dad told you to.”

“We will Ma, don't worry,” he assures her. “Laurel’s as eager as you are to get over.”

“Smart girl,” his mom says. “You two enjoying yourselves?”

“Honestly,” Frank tells her. “Not really.”

His mom makes a faint noise, though Frank can’t interpret the meaning behind it until she speaks. “Laurel was saying she didn't expect you would.”

“Well, she’s usually right.”

He knows his mom is grinning over the line. “She puts up with you Frankie, she’s obviously not _that_ smart.”

“Ma,” he grouses.

“What?” she asks innocently. “Laurel can do a lot better than you. You better propose to her before she realizes it.”

“Ma,” he says again, thinking she’s gonna be pretty damn surprised when they arrive at his folks’ house on Sunday with engagement rings, thinks that maybe he’ll give Laurel his grandma’s ring while they’re over there, really give his mom a shock.

“What? You’re not getting any younger. And Laurel’s graduating soon, you better make sure she doesn't think you’re gonna let her go and take a job somewhere else.”

He sighs heavily, rolls his eyes. Laurel grins, sticks her tongue out at him.

“I don't think that she has any doubt, ma,” he tells her.

“Don't be an idiot,” his mom warns. “Where’s Laurel anyway?”

“She’s right here,” Frank says, edging the phone closer to her.

“Merry Christmas,” Laurel calls over the line.

“To you too honey. How’s it being home?”

“Philly’s home now,” Laurel says. “Being in Florida’s just strange.”

“Well I’m glad to hear you’re not planning on leaving the city,” she tells Laurel. “Because lord knows Frankie’s never gonna get it together to keep you here on his own.

Laurel laughs lightly. “Well, you’re in luck, I heard back from the PDs office yesterday.”

“Yeah?” his mom asks, sounding eager and hopeful. “You get some good news, honey?”

“I did,” Laurel says, smiling brightly.

“That’s so wonderful,” his mom exclaims. “Sal, Laurel heard back from the PDs office!”

Both he and Laurel cringe a bit as his mom shouts over the phone, though neither of them can help the grins that slip onto their faces.

There's a loud “No shit, good on her,” from what must be his dad.

“I told you, didn't I, Laurel. Told you there was no way they wouldn't give you a job,” Frank loves how pleased and proud his mom sounds, doesn't think she’d sound happier if he’d told her the same news. “You work your ass off for that office, of course they were gonna want to keep you on.”

He and Laurel both laugh.

“Don't you two laugh,” his mom scolds. “But Laurel, honey, what kind of cake do you like, I never remember. I’m gonna bake one for Sunday.”

“That’s really ok,” Laurel insists.

“Nonsense,” his mom says. “You got a job, you’re getting a cake. Them’s the rules.”

“Can I just ask for some of your Italian wedding cookies instead?”

His mom gives a sharp bark of laughter, setting the speakers on his phone squawking with static. “Do you really think I haven't made you a batch already?”

“Well I didn't want to assume,” Laurel says, looking pleased.

“You’ve only been through one Christmas with us and maybe Frankie hasn’t properly explained things to you,” his mom says, sounding a little stern. “But everyone gets cookies. If I like you, you get more.”

Laurel laughs again, grins up at Frank. “So what do I rate?”

“Honey, I’m offering you a cake. You don't have anything to worry about where you rate. Frankie,” she says then. “You want peanut butter ones? I already made you some sugar cookies, but Brandy insisted on peanut butter and I know how much you love them too.”

“Sure Ma,” he tells her. “I’m not turning down peanut butter cookies.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “I’ll have them all boxed up when you two come over.”

There’s a loud crash in the distance on the phone and Frank can hear someone, maybe his sister, yelling angrily in the background.

“I gotta go Frank,” his mom says distractedly. “I think one of the boys broke something. Hopefully just a lamp and not a bone.”

“Ok,” he says quickly. “Love you, Merry Christmas.”

“You too,” she says and Frank can hear the shouts in the background go louder. “Love you both.”

“You know,” he says after ending the call. “That's the first good reason to do Christmas with your folks. My mom offers me two batches of cookies.”

“Or,” Laurel suggests. “You could just ask for two batches. I don't think she’d deny you.”

Frank smirks. “You obviously overestimate how much my mom likes me.”

“You’re her favorite,” Laurel tells him, grinning softly. “Trust me, I can tell.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I spent most of my life wishing I was someone’s favorite. I know what it looks like.”

“You’re your dad’s,” Frank tells her. “Even now I think.”

“Nah,” she tells him with a little shake of her head. “My dad doesn't do favorites. We all disappoint him in our own special ways. But if he had to pick, he’d go with Adrian.”

Frank honestly kind of doubts that. As much as he thinks Jorge is frustrated, disappointed and infuriated by Laurel, as much as he completely fails to understand her, he thinks that a lot of it is because Jorge loves her so fiercely, wants so much for her that she utterly rejects. He doesn't know whether telling Laurel that will make things worse, will make what she’s decided to do that much harder, so he stays quiet. But he’s pretty certain that if her dad had to choose one of his children, he’d go with Laurel, pretty sure that if Laurel put aside her lingering pain and resentment and betrayal, she'd realize it too.

The thing that stops him though, is that he doesn't know what she’d do with that knowledge, doesn't know if it would stay her hand or send her running to Barrow. The one thing he is confident about though, is that whatever moves he makes, whatever decisions he comes to, from now on they have to be aimed at protecting Laurel, keeping her from both her father’s wrath and from the long arm of Barrow’s reach. He knows she’d just tell him she doesn't need protection, that she can handle herself, _has_ handled herself for far longer than he’s been around, but he can’t help himself, he knows that whatever she ultimately chooses to do, it will be risky, dangerous even. He suspects that she is caught not between a rock and a hard place, but between a gun and a gun, either choice disastrous. So, well, whatever he can do to even the odds a little more, help her find a way through and out to the other side, that's what he'll do, even if she resents him for it. Because she’s gotta be alive to resent him and that’s pretty much all that matters to Frank.

“So,” Laurel says then. “I think it's pretty obvious we’re gonna need more booze to handle the rest of the evening.”

“Wait?” he asks incredulously. “There’s a rest of the evening? And more importantly, even if there is a rest of the evening, we’re planning on participating and not acting like there’s a restraining order and we have to stay at least a hundred yards away from your dad at all times?”

Laurel giggles, though there’s something dark behind the sound. “Relax. He’s not going to kill me Frank.”

“Really?” Frank asks, more harshly than he intended. “Cause it sounded to me like he wasn't ruling it out.”

“He’s not,” Laurel agrees, little frown lines pulling at her brows. “Ruling it out. But if we go around acting like I’ve already sold him out he’ll certainly start thinking more seriously about it. Right now he’s just reminding me that he could.”

“Seriously, Laurel?” he asks, trying to keep his temper in check, suspecting he’s probably failing miserably. “You're not worried that your dad basically just hinted that he might kill you? That's, that's not right.”

“He doesn't mean it,” she insists. “Not yet.”

“Laurel,” he says again, slowly, taking in deep breaths so he doesn't let his anger flare. “I’ve worked for some pretty awful people, some people who could probably give your old man a run for his money, probably _do_ give him a go of it. And I’ve never seen them joke about murder, never talk about it casually. If they say something like that, you damn well better understand that they mean it. And what's more, I’ve never seen them threaten their kids, no matter how bad they screw up. So, please babe, please just take this seriously, ok?”

She exhales slowly, nods. “Ok,” she tells him. “But that’s why we gotta play it cool, Frank. You ok with that?”

“Yeah,” he sighs resignedly. “I can do that.” Laurel places her right hand over his knee, brushes her thumb against his skin.

Her takes her hand, turns her palm up and runs his finger over the raised line of her stitches, feeling the still puffy, hot skin, the little knots and pulls of the threads. “Just, I don't think that doc is gonna be very pleased to see us again, and he already thinks I’m knocking you around. So, please, can we just try and avoid any bloodshed?”

She rolls her eyes, gives him a tiny grin. “Sure, but only cause I really don't feel up to convincing him you're not hitting me.”


	42. Chapter 42

Laurel stands, but doesn't drop Frank’s hand. “C’mon,” she says, tugging lightly at his wrist. “We’re not gonna look any less suspicious skulking in shadowy doorways like we’re the world’s most obvious spies.”

“Hey,” he says with a twisting smile, feigning that he’s insulted. “I’m an awesome spy.”

“Eh,” she allows, her expression sliding to matching his, sweet and mocking. “You’re ok.”

“Well now I definitely don't want to, what was it, ‘skulk in doorways’ with you.”

“Good,” she says, coaxing Frank to his feet. “Lets go pretend I can stand my family.”

The little group by the doorway has vanished, gone back inside Frank assumes. Renata, however, is leaning heavily against the back wall, one leg tucked up beneath her as she takes furtive puffs on a dwindling cigarette.

“You off giving him a blowie in the bushes?” Renata asks Laurel, slumping even further against the wall.  
Laurel fixes her with a withering look. “Does your mom know about this new little habit of yours?” she asks meanly, gesturing at the cigarette.

Renata scoffs. “Totally.”

“Liar,” Laurel tells her, sounding largely disinterested. “Your mom doesn't know your dad’s still smoking, so she definitely doesn’t know you are. So think about that before acting like a little shit. That and try to remember who’s helping you with your college apps.”

“You wouldn't be so defensive if you hadn’t been hooking up.”

Laurel shrugs, rolling her eyes. “Do either of us look like we just got off?” she asks, gesturing between herself and Frank.

Renata gives them both a mulish look, tosses her cigarette to the ground between her feet and Laurel’s, crushes the butt beneath her heel. “I dunno what you’re into,” she says shrugging casually as she steps off the wall.

Laurel rolls her eyes again, makes a noise of annoyance. “You better believe I’m not sneaking you any booze tonight.”

Renata glares. “Not cool Laurel.”

Laurel laughs. “Because it's cool to suggest I’m blowing Frank in the bushes?”

Her cousin shrugs. “You know I wouldn't say anything to anyone inside.”

“Well, I do now.”

“So,” Renata asks, wheedling now. “You gonna slip me some booze?”

“Easy there tiger,” Laurel tell her. “We’ll see if you behave yourself.”

“You going in?”

Laurel nods. “Yeah, figured we needed to be social.”

Renata nods. “If anyone asks, I’m not out here, k?”

“I haven't seen you since dinner,” Laurel lies smoothly.

Renata gives a little nod with just her chin. “And if my sister’s looking for me?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Think I saw you in the kitchen going after extra desert.”

“Awesome,” Renata says, grinning wide. “Love you, L.”

Laurel rolls her eyes and chuckles softly. “Back at you kid.”

Frank follows Laurel then, back into the house which has gotten markedly more crowded while they were gone. The large living room has filled with people, clad in suits and expensive looking dresses, most of them holding champagne flutes or tumblers.

“Who are all these people?” Frank whispers as they slip unnoticed into the house.

“Some of them are friends of my dad’s, some are relatives,” Laurel says, nodding at quick hello to a group of older men huddled by the bar. “And the rest work for him.”

Frank is pretty sure he can tell the employees from the friends; there seem to be two fairly distinct categories of people in the Castillo’s sunroom. There are older men; mostly white, grey haired and dressed in somber colored suits, drinking brown liquor and chatting in hushed tones at the corners of the room. The other group is markedly younger, markedly less white, mostly wearing jackets but pairing them with unmatched pants or jeans, congregating in the center of the room, around the couches and tables where they are sipping at clear liquor, the rum, Frank suspects and what can only be tequila.

“How many of them do you know?” Frank asks, leaning close to whisper in her ear, still eyeing the crowd suspiciously.

Laurel’s shoulders hitch. “You’d be surprised. A lot of them have been working for him for years. I probably had a crush on like twenty people in this room.”

Frank laughs low and quick, knocking Laurel’s shoulder with his. “Oh man, you gotta point out the dudes that baby Laurel lusted after.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, knocks his shoulder back. “Most of them really didn't age well.”

“Well,” he says, giving her a cocky grin as they edge towards the bar. “I think the problem is that most of them have some pretty lacking facial hair.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Is that your expert opinion?”

“Yeah,” he tells her, catching her incredulous look. “Hey, I’m both an expert on what turns you on and on facial hair; trust me on this.”

She’s still laughing as she orders them two whiskeys, neat, and thanks the bartender with a quick nod. Frank wonders if this makes him part of the old, white-haired and suited Anglo crowd, wishes Laurel had asked the kid for rum instead, even though, yeah, he does kind of prefer whiskey. It kind of embarrasses him that he cares, because even if he’s probably closer to the age of the younger crowd than the older, he’s still a white guy, and so what, honestly. But still, he cares, because it's really just another hint that he’s never really gonna get Laurel’s world, no matter how hard he tries, no matter far away she removes herself from that world.

“So your dad just invites people over to drink?” Frank clarifies, still trying to figure out what Jorge’s aim is.

She nods. “Yeah, basically. I think it's his version of team-building. Or networking. Something.”

“Honestly,” he says. “That's a little weird.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, tries to disguise the edge from her voice. “Honestly, it's probably the least weird thing about my dad. You do remember what he does for a living, right?”

“Its kind of brilliant, if that's his aim. Nothing builds teamwork like free alcohol.”

“Well,” she says, wicked little smile slipping onto her face. “Until you have too much and then things just get awkward.”

“Are you expecting any of that?”

She shrugs a casually. “Not sure. Last time I was down for Christmas I got myself booted long before drinks.”

He raises his glass in a mocking toast. “Well congrats on making it this far without being escorted out.”

Laurel knocks her glass against his. “Cheers to that, I guess. And to not getting booted at all this time.”

They slide down the bar, and Laurel leans heavily against it.

“You’re about to fall asleep aren't you?” Frank asks with a little grin, angling his body into hers.

“Probably,” she confirms. “I’m gonna let myself be seen, finish this drink and slink off to bed like I’m eighty.”

Frank makes a little noise of disagreement, teasing. “I think you might be doing worse than your grandma actually. She looks to be partying pretty hard.”

And it's true, Laurel’s _abuela_ is chatting animatedly with two men from the younger crowd, and, as they watch, she downs a shot of tequila with them, throwing it back like its water as the two men laugh and high five her.

Laurel laughs, tries to stifle it behind her hand, fails miserably. “I told you _Abuela_ is kind of hardcore.”

Frank laughs too. “You think we should get her together with Grandma Rosa? Let them be shitfaced and sassy together.”

She nods, grinning wide. “Definitely.”

“Laurel, hey,” a man greets her, sliding down the bar to approach her, a wide, open smile on his face. He’s younger, probably around Adrian’s age, maybe a little older, his hair greying slightly at the temples. Frank wonders idly if this is one of Laurel’s childhood crushes; by the way the man addresses her, warmly but also with a touch of what might be the kind of patient indulgence he remembers his sister’s friends always reserved for him, he suspects the man might have been. The man lean over, gives Laurel a quick hug, pressing a kiss against her cheek. “I didn't know you were coming down this year.”

Something brightens in Laurel’s face and she doesn't tense or stiffen; Frank can only assume she knows and likes this man, whoever he is. “Yeah,” Laurel says. “Figured I should put in an appearance since I skipped last year and cut the year before short.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you down,” he says, genuinely. “And I know your dad is too.”

Laurel tries not to make a sound of disbelief, fails. “I’m not twelve and easy to lie to anymore.”

The man laughs. “I’m not,” he assures Laurel. “Though I still maintain that pop rocks and Coke will make you explode.”

Laurel grin wide. “You and Frank,” she says, turning her body to include him in the conversation, push him forward into the man’s line of sight, so that he can’t be ignored. “Frank, this is Aaron. He works for my dad. Aaron, this is Frank, the boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend huh?” he asks with a teasing smile after he takes Frank’s hand, shakes it. “I guess that means you're not pining over me anymore.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, blushes slightly and looks embarrassed. “I think I was ten. Are you ever gonna let that go?”

Aaron laughs. “Hell no,” he gives Frank a guilty look. “Sorry Frank.”

Frank shrugs, grins lopsidedly. “No, please. Tell me more about tiny Laurel,” he bumps Laurel’s hip with his, lightly and teasingly, grins at her as she tries to glare.

Aaron glances at Laurel, seems to gauge her reaction before he speaks. “Tiny Laurel was always underfoot, always trying to get us to play baseball with her or help with homework. She didn't seem to care that half of us didn't even have a GED.”

Laurel gives him a look. “I just wanted someone to explain algebra.”

Aaron scoffs. “I don't know why you thought we’d know anything about it.”

“Not like I knew what a GED was at twelve. I mostly just wanted someone to pay attention to me.”

“And explain algebra.”

Laurel laughs. “Yeah, algebra was pretty awful.”

“You any good at algebra?” Aaron asks Frank with a smirk.

“Nah,” he says. “But luckily she thinks I’m cute anyway.”

“Most of the time,” Laurel clarifies, fixing a long stare at Frank.

“So, Frank, what do you do if you’re not a mathematician?”

“I work for a law professor,” Frank says, adhering to his previous lie, which, he supposes, isn't entirely untrue. He thinks it's kind of absurd that he’s trying to pretend he just has a boring research gig or something, is barely more than a glorified TA, in front people who are unlikely to care that his job is really more like hired muscle, are probably more likely to respect him, his job, if he told them the truth. He knows Jorge doesn't believe the lie, knows exactly what his job duties entail, wonders idly if Aaron can too, can look at him at his face, his hands, his eyes and know the truth, know the violence lurking under his skin.

“That how you two met?” Aaron asks, grinning wide. Frank can practically see him rubbing his hands together in glee. He thinks maybe that even if he can see what Frank is, he doesn't care; would rather tease Laurel than wonder about why she’s dating a thug who pretends not be, who disguises himself with suits and a pretty-sounding job title. “You sleeping with your teacher Laurel?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Sleeping with my professor’s employee, technically.”

“Much less exciting,” Frank says with a laugh. “But lets me keep my job.”

“Hey,” Laurel asks then, shooting Aaron a look out of the corner of her eyes, something wary in them. “Does Julio still work for my dad?”

“Julio the Dominicano?”

Laurel nods.

Aaron glances quickly at Frank and addresses Laurel in Spanish, a sudden coolness in his voice. Frank thinks he sees Aaron’s eyes track around the room, trying to search Jorge out, he assumes, determine whether, whoever Julio the Dominicano is, Frank’s allowed to know more about him than just his name.

Laurel fixes Aaron with a hard look, her voice clipped when she replies. He notices her edge closer to his body, angling her shoulder, hip into his, stepping just slightly backwards to draw her body nearly against his; aligning herself with Frank against Aaron or her father or the entire world.

Whatever she's said, Aaron nods minutely, says something quick with a half smile, but his eyes are still narrowed and his arms cross over his chest.

Laurel practically glowers at him. “Frank,” she says, switching to English, voice mocking and eyes never leaving Aaron. “Aaron wants to know if you're cool. Are you cool?”

“I’m cool.”

“Not a rat?” she asks when Aaron doesn't yet look convinced.

Frank shakes his head, meets Aaron’s eyes for a long minute, letting the other man judge him, asses him, weigh the intentions behind his words. “Not a rat.”

Laurel nods, moves so that her arm brushes against Frank’s. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Dad seems to like him.”

There's a long moment when the other man still regards them doubtfully.

“Seriously?” Laurel asks, exasperated. “Forget it then. I don't care about Julio that badly.”

Aaron laughs and the tension seems to ease. “Sorry Frank, Jorge liking you is probably the kiss of death for your relationship.”

“Hey,” Laurel says, giving Aaron a dark look, still annoyed. “I had that ridiculous crush on you and Alex and…”

“Yeah, yeah. When you were a kid. And then you spent the next decade bringing home debate team captains or whatever cause you knew it’d make Jorge crazy.”

She shrugs. “Maybe I like smooth talkers.”

Frank grins wolfishly. “I’d say that’s pretty damn accurate.”

Aaron gives Frank a long look. “What is it you do exactly for that law professor Frank?”

“I’m the investigator.”

“Huh,” he says and something in his tone suggests that he’s starting to have his own suspicions about what Frank’s job might entail. Apparently whatever he’s decided, whatever he’s judged in Frank, it's enough that he's decided to trust him. “So, Julio,” he offers, giving Laurel a smile that borders on sheepish, apologetic.

“So, Julio?” she echoes. “What’s going on with him?”

“Not much going on with him right now,” Aaron tells her, frowning a little and taking a long sip of his drink. “He got pinched maybe eighteen months ago.”

Laurel hisses slightly, frowns. “Shit. What’s his bid?”

“He was an idiot, didn't take a deal. He’s looking at something like thirty before he gets parole. Your dad was pissed.”

“I bet,” Laurel says darkly. “That’s like his mantra; never talk, but always take a deal. He at least looking out for Julio though?”

“Yeah,” Aaron confirms. “But with a thirty year stint; there’s not much your dad can do.”

“Shit,” she says again, elongating the word, shaking her head dejectedly and crossing her arms over her chest. “He was damn cute too. That mustache.”

Frank’s grin goes teasing. “Well good to know you’ve always had a facial hair fetish.”

“That's your takeaway?” Laurel asks incredulously and Frank thinks he hears an edge of something in her words.

He shrugs, tries to give her one of those cocky smiles that usually softens her up. “That and I finally know why you're so good at poker; you know to take a good deal when you see one.”

She snorts. “It's not that I’m not good at poker, it's that you’re kind of bad at poker.”

“Wow,” Frank says, feigning hurt just as Aaron gets in a “That's _cold_ , man.”

Laurel shrugs, smirks. “Doesn't mean it's not true.”

“Law school probably helps with poker too huh?” Aaron asks. “Teaches you how to bluff?”

Another man comes up to Aaron then, seems to ask him a question, voice too low for Frank to hear, but the new man’s gaze tracks to Frank, eyeing him suspiciously. He’s probably a little older than Aaron, maybe a few years younger than Frank, with the same well-groomed standard haircut as Adrian. He’s wearing a full suit like the older crowd, but he has the look of someone shrewd and calculating and Frank thinks he's probably someone who works for Jorge. He suspects, simply because of the way he questions Aaron, the way Aaron quickly, eagerly, responds, that he is someone powerful, someone high up in whatever organization Jorge’s set up.

“Laurel, hey,” the man says, turning away from Frank. “How's it treating you up north?”

She smiles, but there’s something stiff, reserved behind the gesture. She again steps back, steps into Frank’s body before she speaks. “Hasn't snowed too bad this year,” she says shortly. “How’ve things been down here?”

The second man glances at Aaron, shrugs. “Wouldn't know. I’ve been going with Benny to Baltimore a bunch. Barely thaw out before your dad sends us up again.”

“Did you make sure your Christmas bonus included a winter coat?”

The man laughs. “I honestly don't think Jorge’s ever seen snow. He’d have no idea where to start.”

“Are you one of those idiots trying to walk around all day in a sweater?”

“I happen to have a very attractive leather jacket,” he tells her smugly. “Who’s this?”

Laurel glances behind her, quickly, casually, but catches Frank's eye and something in her gaze urges him to be quiet for now.

“This is my boyfriend, Frank,” she says cautiously, as though she has doubts about how the information will be taken.

“Hey Frank,” the man shakes Frank's hand, harder than necessary. Frank just shrugs and tightens his grip in response till he knows they’re both slightly uncomfortable. He hates these stupid, pointless, brutish contests, these efforts to prove dominance not through cunning or smarts, but through simple brute strength. Frank’s not a weak man, and more than that, he’s not a man easily willing to give up in the face of greater odds. So even if this man was stronger than him, which Frank honestly doubts, even if he could crush Frank’s fingers into dust, he’d probably just grin and bear it and wait for an opportunity to deliver a knockout blow when he thinks Frank’s already down. “David.”


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's right...I've set a final chapter number on this one at long last because I finally think I'm confident it's not gonna change. I've been slowly editing things and was toying with the idea of adding another chapter or two, but I think I'm happy with how things are and how the story winds up.  
> Hopefully I stay happy with things tho... :)

“You work for Laurel’s old man?” Frank asks, deciding that if this man is going to be suspicious of him, try to ferret out information of some kind from Frank, then well, it's only fair Frank attempt the same.

David nods. “I think anyone here under about sixty works for Jorge.”

“Seems like a little bit of a split crowd,” Frank agrees. “Who’re all the old guys?”

David grins. “Business partners. Jorge’s got a finger in nearly every pot in south Florida. I think most of them are builders, land developers, couple politicians, things like that.”

“Didn't know he was in real estate,” Frank says casually, trying to leave the door open for David to let slip more information.

The other man nods. “Sure. He buys and sells land, owns a bunch of properties, couple of contracting, building firms. Hell, he basically runs the zoning boards from here to Miami. Didn't your girl tell you any of this?”

Frank tries out a sheepish grin, glances over at Laurel, still chatting quietly with Aaron, tries to catch her eye and make sure he’s not getting himself into trouble without realizing it. “She basically just said her dad’s job is making money, wasn't terribly specific.”

David laughs shortly. “Well that's true enough. It's hard to really pin him down to one area.”

Frank tries to laugh with him, can only summon something like a weak smile. “He have property up in Baltimore too?”

“Nah,” David says, though he gives Frank a look, narrows his eyes in a way that suggests Frank should get off the subject of what exactly David does for Jorge’s organization. “You'd be surprised how provincial the boss is. It took me about six months to convince him to even look at a piece of Gulf-front property up in Sarasota.”

“At least it doesn't get too cold in Sarasota,” Frank offers

“True that. I’d so much rather stay down here.”

“Put in for a transfer,” Frank suggests with a grin.

David laughs. “Doesn’t really work like that with Jorge Castillo.”

“You go where you're told, huh?” Frank asks rhetorically. “Me too.”

He looks shrewdly at Frank, judging once again. “What is it you do again, Frank?”

“I work for a very demanding law professor,” Frank offers.

David nods slowly and seriously, mouth thinning. “Ah, you’re the fixer,” he says. “Boss man said he found someone to help him with a little problem he’s been having down here.”

“That's me, I guess,” Frank tells him, trying hard not to frown deeply, to not give away his thoughts on having been asked to ‘speak with’ Agent Barrow, to make himself appear as though he remains a good and trustworthy mercenary for Jorge. “I’m the fixer.”

David glances over at Laurel, jerks his head to indicate her. “She know what you do?”

Frank shrugs, voice going flat as he tries to sound neutral and unconcerned. “She knows enough,” he lies.

David hums. “Don't let her know too much,” he advises. “Laurel’s crafty as hell, but she doesn't get it.”

“Get what?” Frank gets out through gritted teeth.

“The things we gotta do to get things done,” he tells him, as if that cryptic statement explains everything.

“I don't think that's true at all,” Frank says carefully. 

David again gives Frank that calculating look. “Look I'm not saying this cause she’s a girl, or because I’m jealous about her being the boss’ daughter; but she’s not willing to be ruthless or cynical, doesn't understand that if she wants to get anywhere she needs to face up the fact that other people are assholes and sometimes she needs to be an asshole too.”

“I think she just chooses not to be an asshole,” Frank says carefully. “Not that she has some illusion that other people aren't.”

David doesn't look entirely convinced and Frank has a moment where he wonders just what exactly her father’s employees think of Laurel, of the rest of her family, wonders about the strange dynamics that arise because, really, Jorge has two families, and he’s not sure how completely he allows them to mix.

Adrian, of course, looks like he couldn't be more at home, presiding over a small group of well-dressed men as he leans casually against the wall, laughing at something one of the men says and sipping at a tumbler of what Frank decides is whiskey. The men look to him like Frank suspects they look to Jorge, gauging his moods, looking to him for approval, for assurance. It would make Frank worried if he didn't know that Laurel intends to topple the whole thing, intends to upset the entire house of cards, and that, _that_ casually disastrous plan makes him far more concerned than the idea of Adrian in charge of Jorge’s empire.

Hector and Vanessa, however, are nowhere to be seen, though Frank assumes Laurel’s sister is probably somewhere getting her kids to sleep. Hector, well, if he had to guess, Frank would assume he’s holed up somewhere probably having his own party. Frank half wishes he could join him. And Laurel; clearly Aaron likes her, views her like a friend’s kid sister, which, Frank supposes, is accurate enough. But David, there’s a low, rumbling animosity underneath his words now that Frank isn't entirely sure how to interpret, whether it's disrespect or anger or jealousy or something else entirely. He thinks it may be better if he doesn't know at all.

“I guess you’d know best,” David concedes with a shrug, the sudden tension easing from his face. “But even so, don't say anything to her about what’s going on with you and the boss, ok?”

Frank wants to point out that Jorge is _not_ his boss, not now, not ever, but refrains, decides it's not worth it to correct the inaccuracy. He just smiles, tightly, and lets the comment pass.

“You need any help though?” David asks. “Old man told me to offer my services.”

Frank shakes his head. “It's usually easier to go it alone,” he says, trying not to sound furious or worried. Because either way this offer is bad. It either means Jorge doesn't trust him to get the job done or that he’s being played somehow, set up. He knows it's not a casual offer.

David nods, grins. “Got it. Fewer folks involved, less chance of a fuckup.”

“Yeah,” Frank says shortly, wondering why David has let it go so easily, wonders if perhaps this was some kind of test, wonders if he’s failed. “I just want to get down there and take care of things. Simple, quick. You know, not a lot of moving parts that can get messed up.”

He nods again. “Well, just let me know if you need anything. Gear, backup, whatever.”

“Will do,” Frank says, trying to fix a grateful smile onto his face.

“You planning on doing it tonight?” David asks him. “Girl looks like she’s about to drop where she stands. Probably a good time for it.” He nods again in Laurel’s direction. 

She’s talking now to an older couple, not necessarily looking uncomfortable, but certainly stiff and formal. Frank has to admit, she does look a little rough though, pale and waxy, in that way that suggests sickness, suggests that her body has simply stopped functioning and has begun to break down. There are dark smudges, bruises really, under her eyes that Frank knows can’t be disguised as makeup, and her eyes themselves are dull and slow, the usually vibrant blue of them faded and shallow.

“Might be the right time for it,” Frank agrees noncommittally. “I can probably lift Hector’s keys without much issue.”

David laughs, as though Frank has made some great joke. “Hector? That kid wouldn’t notice if you took them straight from his hand.”

Frank almost wants to ask about that, ask about the disrespect he clearly holds for Hector, wants to find out where that comes from, what's behind his words, his derision. “He’s not so bad,” Frank offers instead, finding himself taking up for Hector since Laurel isn't there to do it herself. He wonders, half amused, whether this is part of what he’s signing up for in wanting to marry Laurel, if he’s signing up for forty years of defending Hector against people who think he’s just useless and lazy and spoiled. He thinks he’d do it for Laurel, thinks he’d do anything for her, and honestly he has a lot more sympathy for Hector now that he knows what he’s been through, but well, the idea of sticking up for him for the rest of his life makes Frank a little annoyed, a little exhausted already. But he thinks maybe that's what a good brother in law does, sticks up for the hapless Hector through everything because that's what Laurel wants.

David laughs, but meanly, mocking and derisive. “The kid’s barely functional at the best of times.”

“His restaurants doing pretty well,” Frank offers. “And the food industry is pretty damn hard.”

David fixes him with a doubtful look, something cruel still marring his face. “He’s like a savant or something. Knows how to cook, but try asking him to pay taxes; hell, try getting him to gas up his car and he’d probably fall apart.”

“Kid seems alright,” Frank says. “He managed to be mostly on time to the airport.”

“Maybe he’s gotten his shit together since I last saw him,” he hums skeptically. “But I think it's more likely Laurel just told him an earlier time to be there.”

“I dunno.”

“She knows as well as anyone; Hector’s about one broken egg away from going back to the funny farm,” David seems to see something in Frank’s face, pauses and peers at him intently, searching it out, whatever it was he thought he saw. “You know about that right?”

Frank nods, voice clipped. “She filled me in.”

He’s not entirely sure what he will do if David begins gossiping about Laurel and Hector, about what they went through. _No,_ Frank corrects himself, tired of using these stupid little euphemisms, these turns of phrase that allow what really happened to be disguised, glossed over, given far less import than it actually deserves, really; about how Laurel and Hector were tortured. He may defer to Laurel when he actually speaks, call it whatever she wants because she doesn't want to acknowledge it, but he can't keep doing that in his own mind, can’t keep burying it behind better sounding words which allow him to forget that she was tortured and nearly killed. And, in that, he knows it will make it really goddamn hard for him to hear David try and make light of it, as Frank knows he will do, really hard to resist taking a swing, saying something stupid, something dangerous.

“Well then you know how Hector went to absolute shit. I mean, they both did, but at least your girl pulled out of her nosedive. Hector’s pretty much been hitting rock bottom for the past decade,” he glances over at Laurel then and a wide smile cracks his face. There’s something sinister in it though, something that feels to Frank like an edge of glee at seeing someone else in pain. “She still do that thing when she freaks out?”

“What thing?” Frank grits out through clenched teeth, trying not to let David see how angry his words are making him. He feels like his entire body is so tense, so stiff, he’d crack in half if even a pound of pressure was applied. His hands ball into tight fists and he wills them to relax, to open. He’s pretty sure whatever David’s about to say, Frank’s going to hate it, gonna want to bash his smug, arrogant face in.

“Reciting the fucking states in alphabetical order or whatever. Something like that,” David’s grinning like an asshole, like he and Frank are sharing some great little hilarious secret. 

“No, I haven't seen her do that,” Frank growls. Because thankfully Laurel has only had a few freak outs, a few panic attacks, in the two years they've been together. And when she does, she's never been so far gone that she’s not present, not capable of focusing, answering, calming herself down with deep, slow breaths. And fuck David for getting any kind of glee or enjoyment from Laurel’s panic and fear and pain. 

“Huh,” is all David says, though he still looks a little pleased at the memory and a little perplexed that Frank doesn't seem to think it's as funny as he does.

“How long have you been with Jorge?” Frank asks, gritting his words out. “Seems like you’ve known the family for ages.”

David’s grin grows wider. “I joined up when I was fifteen maybe. I don't think Hector and Adrian were even in school yet. I used to get ordered to play baseball with them when the bigwigs were meeting with boss man.”

“Glorified babysitter?” Frank asks, now the one that’s grinning meanly.

“Basically. I was an errand boy till I was twenty, paying my dues, so I was a lot of things till then. No one ever made you help with homework or play t-ball for hours?”

Frank shakes his head. “Nope. The kids’re kept well away from the business where I’m from.”

“Is that so?” David asks. “Cause that doesn't sound feasible where _I’m_ from. The kids get involved whether you want to keep them from the life or not. As I’m sure Laurel could tell you.”

“I guess that's the difference then,” Frank says, still glaring daggers. “You call it the life, we call it the business. There's an understanding not to involve families, no matter how bad things get.”

“I thought your people called it the family?”

“But we don't involve families.”

David hums, smile going sly, calculating. “Maybe that's why Laurel likes you Frank. Sounds like neither of you know what it takes to get things done.”

“I know how to get things done,” Frank assures him, and now the threat is clear in his voice. “And I don't need to resort to involving innocents to do it.”

“Really Frank?” David asks with a snort. “Innocents? Ain't nobody innocent here.”

“Maybe not,” he agrees. “But if I’m gonna come for you, I’m gonna come for _you_ , not your family, not anyone else. Just you.”

David grins wide, laughs. “Is that a threat?”

Frank tries to keep his face still, expressionless. “Why’d it be a threat?” he asks innocently.

“Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck,” he shrugs, eyes twinkling with something like mirth. “You're more interesting than I thought Frank.”

“Just know that if you try to come for me, I’ll give you a fight,” David continues. He doesn't make it sound like a threat, Frank thinks, but like a vow. He hopes he never has to find out, because while he thinks David may be a little cocky, a little too chatty about things he should keep damn quiet, he’s still a man who’s clearly climbed the ladder into a position of power, of trust, is clearly a man who is smart and dangerous and not to be underestimated. But well, Frank is too and he thinks they’d probably have a fight on their hands.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Frank tells him, keeping his voice level and even, holding the other man’s gaze.

“Just make sure you go after boss man’s Agent friend too.”

“Is that an order?” Frank asks.

“Just a suggestion,” David tells him after a moment. “Jorge’s putting a lot of trust in you.”

“Is _that_ a threat?” Frank asks in an echo of David’s words.

David grins. “You don't have to worry about me,” he assures Frank. “It's him you have to worry about.”

“I don't intend to give him anything to worry about,” Frank tells him.

“That's a good plan, Frank. And you let me know if you need any backup, alright?” David smiles again, reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and quickly withdraws a small handgun. Frank tries not to instinctively step back, but as the gun is produced, something catches in his brain, recognizes the familiar gestures. Whatever David’s doing, he's angling his body, orienting the gun so that no one bit Frank will notice, will see what he’s done. Frank suspects that's a good thing, suspects that most of this crowd is probably going to be rather jumpy if a gun is drawn, will draw their own at any sign of a threat. 

“Here,” David tells him, turning the gun slightly so that he can pass it to Frank while shielding it from view with both their bodies. “You don't seem like the type to use one of these, but just in case. Fed's are slippery bastards, and I don't think boss man’d be pleased to have you turn up with your brains blasted out.”

Frank tries to fake a grateful smile. “Thanks, but you’re right, I don't use ‘em. And I definitely don't put my fingerprints on someone else’s gun.”

“Maybe you really are a smart man, Frank,” David tells him after a long moment, chuckling wryly. “Good luck.”

Frank nods as the other man turns away, slips into the crowd. Frank’s eyes don’t follow him, but search out Jorge, wonders what kind of test he just passed, because he thinks that might've been what just happened; he’s pretty sure he didn't fail, desperately hopes he didn't.

Frank notices Jorge is at the far end of the room, speaking loudly with a group of the older men, laughing and drinking jovially. But then he seems to sense Frank’s gaze, lifts his eyes and meets his stare across the room, just for a moment. He doesn't quite glare, but his expression is suddenly cold, mouth a thin, tight line. Frank holds Jorge’s stare, holds it until the other man has to turn away, respond to something one of his companions has said. He can't tell if that means he won or lost or just had his date with the wrong end of a gun stayed, but whatever it is, Jorge’s reached some conclusion, and eventually, Frank knows, he will discover what that is, good or bad. He thinks anything that postpones any action taken by Jorge has to be a good thing. And all he knows is that he has to resist Jorge with everything he has.


	44. Chapter 44

Frank watches David disappear into the crowd, watches Jorge continue to preside over the group of older men before turns his eyes away, forces himself to relax and slides closer to the bar, orders another whiskey, thinking if he knew what was good for him, he’d order straight tequila and retreat outside. That or cut himself off and head to bed. He honestly can't decide which would be best.

“You’re looking a little rough, man,” the bartender tells Frank as he slides the drink over. “Want a double?”  
  
Frank chuckles. “Sure, thanks. I’ll always take sympathy from the man pouring my drink.”

The bartender pours another large measure into Frank’s tumbler, grins wickedly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks,” Frank says. “You got a tip jar?”

The kid glances quickly to a little pot at the corner of the bar, a few dollars peaking out. Frank slips a couple of singles in, salutes the bartender with his glass.

“You gave me the double just so I'd tip, huh?”

He grins wide, wicked. “Don't tell the man in charge, k?”

Frank decides to screw with the kid, just a little. “Man in charge is my future father in law,” he says, voice taking on a hard edge, a low warning.

The kid blanches, begins stuttering out something Frank can’t hope to decipher.

Frank cracks a grin, chuckles. “Don't worry about it, kid,” he tells him. “It’s not my booze. And I think he can afford you giving a little away for some extra cash.”

He turns away from the bar, finds Laurel standing by his elbow. “Bartender giving away my dad’s liquor?” she asks wryly.

Frank nods, handing over his glass at Laurel’s enquiring look. She takes a sip, then a longer one, beams at him. “He gave you the good stuff.”

“I know,” Frank says, taking back the glass. “Told me not to say anything.”

“You think he’ll do the same for me?” Laurel asks.

Frank shrugs. “He gave me a double cause he said I looked rough.”

She laughs. “If that's the case, I should do better than a double, even before I start flashing my stitches.”

“You good for another drink?” Frank asks, tries to ask casually, tries not to make it sound like he’s questioning her, doubting her ability to stay upright, stay awake. But she’s clearly running on fumes, even before she started having drag out fights with her family, even before the worst moments of her life were being dredged up and laid before her.

Laurel nods. “I might be getting my second wind.”

Frank snorts. “At this point babe, it's more like third or fourth wind.”

“Sounds about right,” she chuckles. “I’ll be ok.”

“Sometimes I think you’re lying when you say that.”

“What gave it away?” Laurel asks, giving him a little grin, bumping his shoulder.

“Could’ve been two weeks ago when you said you were fine and then chucked your outline at my head,” he says, rolling his eyes at her. “That kinda hinted things might not be quite so great.”

“Not the hospital field trip we took last night?” she asks sarcastically.

“Nah,” Frank grins, signals the bartender again. “I got no hints from that.”

She laughs, lightly, orders tequila from the bartender when he frees up. “I promise,” she tells him, catching his hand, a touch of pressure against his wrist. “It might take a day or two, but I’ll be fine. Really.”

He thinks, despite all rationality suggesting otherwise, that he believes her. That Laurel pulled herself back from what was done to her, to the horror that she went though, that she's not some crying, shaking mess in a psych ward somewhere, well, he thinks that's an achievement in itself. And he thinks she can probably get through anything if she got through that, came out of the other side and came out stronger.

“So not really gonna be ok till we’re back in Philly?” Frank says, giving her a grin he hopes looks teasing, covers up the worry he feels. “Got it.”

Laurel takes her drink from the bartender, laughing quickly when she sees its only a double. “Guess I don't look quite as bad as I thought,” she says with a wry smile.

“You’re still beautiful,” he assures her, watching as she raises her eyebrows over the rim of her glass, but she doesn't look quite as skeptical as Frank expected, looks more pleased and amused than anything. “Even exhausted. I think he gave you the flirt double, not the pity double.”

“I didn't know there was such a wide range of free booze I could've been getting,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Problem with being gorgeous,” he jokes, giving her a smug smile. “Guys buy you so many drinks you don't realize you can get them from the bartender too.”

Laurel laughs. “And here I am giving up my days of free drinks from random guys.”

“Don't let me stop your game, player,” he teases, knocking her hip with his again.

“You think I have game?” she asks, grin widening, teasing him back. “That how I seduced you?”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure you're misremembering things. I’m pretty sure if anything you were trying damn hard _not_ to get me to fall in love with you.”

“Not that hard,” she admits. “I was pretty much in love with you long before I knew I was.”

Frank grins. “Yeah, I could tell.”

“Smug bastard,” she says affectionately, taking a long sip of her drink to disguise the smile that threatens to split her face wide. 

Laurel leads him away from the bar, but they continue to hug the wall, watch the rest of the crowd in silence. “Hey,” Laurel says after a moment. “I talked Julia into giving up a copy of her book. It's yours if you want. She offered to sign it, but I declined.”

“What,” Frank mocks lightly. “You don't think she’s getting famous over it?”

Laurel chuckles. “Doubt it. She’s not a bad writer, but somehow I don't think she’s gonna be in the Pulitzer race.”

“Harsh,” Frank says with a grin, trying not to laugh. “What's the book called anyway?”

She makes a small embarrassed noise, smiles sheepishly. “I honestly have no idea.”

“I bet it's something silly and cryptic,” he says. “’The Houseguest’ or something.”

Laurel schools her expression into something stern, though her eyes still sparkle. “’An Unexpected Husband’” she jokes, voice going mockingly serious. “’The Apartment.’”

He laughs. “’Where’s the Remote?’ How about ‘Put the Goddamn Seat Down?’”

“I’m certain Julia didn't go with either of those.”

“I’d read either of those titles though,” he says, watches Laurel roll her eyes.

“You read anything though,” she tells him.

“What does David do by the way?” Frank asks. “He seems pretty intense.”

Laurel hums. “I don't know what he does now. He used to handle the bribes, leverage, stuff like that.”

“So a smooth talker then?”

She nods. “Why? What’d he say to you?”

“He offered me a gun,” Frank says, frowning, watching as Laurel’s expression slips to match his. “And backup.”

“You declined both?” she asks, though her words sound more like a statement than a question. He’s glad she has enough faith in him to knows he said no, wasn't stupid enough or naïve enough to agree to anything offered by Jorge or his men.

He nods. “Definitely. I think there was a better than even chance I was gonna get a bullet in the back or a nice set of silver bracelets had I accepted.”

“You know,” Laurel says, frown going hard. “He’s going to try getting to me through you.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, because honestly he should’ve thought of that possibility, should’ve considered that likely leverage. But he was too distracted by the idea that Jorge actually liked him, wasn’t planning on turning Frank into gator food, that he forgot the very simple way Jorge had of ensuring Laurel’s compliance with anything he wanted. 

She nods.

“So don't let him,” Frank says simply. “If he tries anything, don't let it get to you. I can handle myself.”

And well, he can. He doesn't think Jorge will kill him to get to Laurel, thinks even he recognizes that’ll likely backfire. If anyone’s getting murdered, Frank thinks, it's gonna be her. He can handle some threats, some sucker punches, and he knows he can handle lockup if he has to. So as long as Laurel can play it cool, well, anything Jorge tries is meaningless.

“I don't want you to handle it yourself,” she says with a frustrated growl, clearly not of a mind to play it cool and let her father use him as a way to get to her. “We’re a team and that means I’m not leaving you to handle it.”

He goes to speak, to point out that this is obviously exactly what her father wants, to upset Laurel through Frank, but she cuts him off. “I know that’s just playing into his hand,” she says, giving him a look, silencing his protests. “But I’m not just giving you up like that.”

They both smile stiffly as an older couple passes, greet Laurel with quick nods.

“Alright,” he says, frustrated by her stubbornness, by her inability to grasp that just because she doesn't want to give him up, she may have to in order to be able to burn her father as she intends. She can't have it both ways, he thinks, and she keeps trying and failing to make it happen, to have her damn cake and eat it too. But he softens somewhat, as he is forced to acknowledge just how hard, how impossible a choice she has been given, how many tightropes she needs to walk to get through to the other side where her father is eliminated as a threat, but no one else gets locked up. How she must protect herself, and him, and her family, must give only enough away to the Feds that they can get Jorge, but don't keep coming back to her as a CI, must give nothing away to anyone about what her intentions are so that her father has no inkling of what she’s planned. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don't be,” she says after a long moment. She looks up at him, searches his eyes for something, finds it and gives him a small smile. “Partners ok? Partners don't let each other be bait.”

“Partners don't let each other be bait,” he echoes, taking her hand, letting his thumb glide against the stitches on her palm, tugging her closer, his arm going around her shoulders.

“Laurel!” there’s a shout from across the room, excited and both their heads turn towards the noise. A man about Laurel’s age, dressed in jeans and a button down is positively bounding towards them. “Hey kid.”

Laurel’s beaming by this point, her face breaking out into a wide smile. “Jaime! No one told me you were in town.”

He grins wide, wraps her in a wide hug. “I told everyone to keep it quiet.”

She elbows him lightly. “Jerk. How’d you even know I was coming?”

Jaime snorts. “Dude, your dad’s been talking about nothing else for like a month.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “ _Dude_ ,” she says mockingly. “Why are you talking to my dad about me?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Cause he knows we’re friends.”

“What’re you doing here anyway?” she asks as though she’s still a little shocked by his presence. “Weren’t you working the border?”

He nods. “Doesn't mean I can't come back for Xmas.”

She gives him a derisive look. “Why are you only coming by now? I’ve been here for two days.”

Jaime’s grin is teasing. “Figured I’d give you some with your family. And then show up so you’d appreciate me even more.”

“Really could’ve used you yesterday,” she says, though there’s not the edge Frank expects from her words. Something in the way she speaks makes him think of Wes, the way most of her caution, her armor melts away around him, the way she can just let herself be soft and kind. 

“Yeah,” he says, and something slips in his tone. “Hector filled me in. How’s your hand?”

Laurel gives him a wry smile, though there’s still something tinged with bitterness or pain. “Not as bad as these were,” she says, lifting her left hand, wiggling her fingers slightly.

“Jesus, Laurel,” Jaime sighs, pushing his long, chin-length hair away from his face. “That's not much of a recommendation. I hope you decked someone.”

“Frank did,” she offers with a shrug.

“Oh shit,” Jaime says, suddenly looking gleeful turning away from Laurel and towards him. “The Frank! You’re the Frank.”

“Hi,” Frank ventures, taking the man’s hand.

“Jorge did not tell me you were bringing panty melting Frank with you.”

Frank turns to Laurel, gives her an incredulous look. “Panty melting Frank?” he mouths.

She blushes slightly, glares at Jaime. “I called you that like once,” she tells him, eyes fixed firmly on her feet.

Jaime raises his eyebrows at Frank, shakes his head with a wide grin.

“Traitor,” Laurel hisses, but she grins back at him.

“Panty melting Frank,” Jaime repeats. “I can see the appeal.”

“No please,” Frank deadpans. “Keep objectifying me.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, ignores him. “Did Hector know you were down?”

“Nah,” Jaime says. “I love your brother, but that man cannot keep a damn secret. Hell, it took about five minutes and he was already telling me about your bar fight.”

Laurel scowls. “He tell you some girl was stepping onto Frank?”

Jaime smirks. “He did. I get it, L. You gotta defend your man, but really, it was not worth getting shanked.”

She shrugs. “Wasn't as bad as that, I actually just broke a glass.”

Jaime rolls his eyes, sighs heavily. “Goddamnit Laurel, why’d you have to ruin the illusion?”

“Sorry,” she tells him. “You really didn't think it was going to be exciting did you?”

“Not really, but I hoped. I love a good bar fight.”

Laurel snorts. “Wait till you're in one.”

“Hey,” he says. “I was adjacent to one in El Paso a couple months back.”

“Adjacent?” Frank asks, raising his eyebrows as Laurel rolls her eyes.

“Sounds a little like you’ve _never_ been in one,” Laurel adds.

“True,” Jaime admits. “I try to keep excitement and danger isolated to my professional life.”

“I read about an ICE raid in El Paso a few months ago. That wasn't you, was it?”

Jaime snorts. “No way. That was some two bit op, thought they were thugs.”

Laurel regards him thoughtfully, eyes narrowed slightly. “You called them in.”

“Course I did,” he says with a smug grin. “Uppity little punks. I’m surprised you didn't realize it from the start.”

Laurel shrugs. “I always forget how competitive you are about territory.”

“Well, that’s dumb of you,” he tells her. “Especially after we spent an entire summer trying to get that one damn corner back.” 

Laurel turns to Frank, grin wicked. “He got muscled out of a rich one about a month into working for my dad,” she explains. “Dad told Jaime if he didn't get it back he’d stay a corner boy till he died. And I’m never one to pass up small acts of sabotage against my dad.”

“Also,” Jaime cuts in. “You were barely sleeping and I thought you might be insane, but you had some excellent and ruthless plans.”

“This was after your hand?” Frank clarifies.

“Yeah,” Frank can see Laurel try hard not to frown. “I was a little on edge.”

Jaime rolls his eyes, hip knocking into hers affectionately. “Like I said, I was kind of worried that she was crazy, but two sixteen year old Catholic school kids muscled a corner back, without anyone getting shot, so I figured she couldn't be all bad.”

“So how’d you do it?” Frank asks.

Laurel shrugs, looking surprisingly casual about what Jaime seems to think is a great achievement. “Loitering laws and noise ordinances mostly.”

“I dunno what I was expecting,” he says with a little chuckle, raising his eyebrows at her. “But it was something a little more impressive than that.”

“Hey,” she says, now sounding like she’s defending her status as criminal mastermind with a little more vehemence, though a smirk slips onto her face. “It was probably the most annoying hostile takeover in cartel history.”

“Death by a thousand paper cuts,” Jaime adds. “And all completely legal.”

“I think my dad hated that part the most,” Laurel says, smirking even more. And ok, well, Frank has to admit, that's a new way to muscle territory he doesn't think anyone else has ever thought of, and, he supposes, for a couple of kids, one of whom was pretty clearly still suffering from PTSD or something, well, it actually is rather impressive. He half thinks about suggesting something like that to some of his friends back in Philly. He’s got some childhood friends who own a mattress business as a front, which would be great, except another family tried the same thing a block down. And since no one really wants to risk the fronts by bringing violence into things, his buddies have basically been screwed. Except, well, no one thought of zoning laws or noise ordinances or loitering laws or whatever. He shoulda figured Laurel would have an answer.

Jaime laughs. “You really shoulda stuck around Laurel,” he tells her. “Probably would own half the east coast by now.”

She shakes her head, still grinning, though her eyes grow suddenly cold, like walking into a freezer or a sudden snowstorm.

“You know I couldn't.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jaime’s smile is stiff, and Frank thinks this is probably a well-tread path of contention, the friction in their relationship that keeps Laurel only rarely mentioning anyone from her childhood, even people like Jaime who she clearly likes. “But if you ever want to open up a Philly branch…”

“Jaime,” she says, warningly, though there’s little anger in her voice.

“I know,” he repeats. “Never gonna happen. You’re all about law and order now, or whatever.”

“Something like that,” Laurel says, eyes rolling.

“You’re like a shitty action movie, L,” Jaime tells her. “Mob family versus the cop black sheep. Except you’re kind of boring and went to law school.”

She snorts. “I’m not a DA, Jaime. There’s no drama at all.”

“Technically everyone’s on the same side in this,” Frank adds, thinking that the further he can get this conversation from the idea of Laurel as an inevitable source of betrayal, the better. He thinks Jaime’s words are already hitting slightly too close to home, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s being paranoid or rightly suspicious about Jaime’s presence; if this was some diabolical move by Jorge to remind Laurel about what it will mean if she burns him, the impact it will have on people she likes, maybe even loves.

“Yeah, like I said, most boring action movie ever.”

“Could there _not_ be an action movie?” Laurel asks with a scowl.

“Nah,” he tells her. “I turn everything into an action movie. Breakfast gets intense.”

She laughs. “I thought you only liked drama in your professional life.”

“It’s not real drama,” he explains shrugging.

“Even more reason to keep it out of your life,” Frank says, trying to make it sound casual, joking, suspecting his failed and he sounds accusatory instead.

“C’mon, seriously?” Jaime asks, sounding kind of appalled. “Not a fan of mob movies Frank, what’s wrong with you?”

Laurel chuckles affectionately. “Half his DVD collection is mob movies.”

He shrugs, bumping his hip into hers. “Not my fault all the best movies are mob movies.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows. “He’s got a point there,” he tells Laurel. “Though arguably, _Scarface_ is maybe kind of mob movie, even though it's about Cubans.”

“ _Scarface_ is totally a mob movie,” Laurel says. “It's just not about the Italian mob.”

“Which automatically makes is a lesser mob movie,” Frank argues, wondering if this is the right argument to have with south Florida drug cartel employees or their families, decides that Laurel doesn't seem to be steering him away from this line of conversation, so he ought to be safe for now, though he does make it a point to not say anything too insulting about everyone’s favorite movie about the cocaine trade just in case. 

Because well, Frank’s seen _Scarface_ enough times to know that above all else, he doesn't want to end up like the Diaz brothers; swiftly killed and disposed of offscreen without much further thought by anyone else in the movie. He’ll go out like Tony Montana if he has to, go out in a blaze of glory, but he won't get taken down as some sad, forgotten footnote in someone else’s story. And maybe that makes him naïve and he knows it makes him pathetic, because well, everyone’s death is a footnote, really, in someone else’s movie, but he’s not gonna let himself be some redshirt, some extra death meant to spice up a mob movie, some side character that barely gets a mention let alone a name. Hell no. He didn't come as far as he has, and Laurel certainly didn't either, to be disposed of quite so easily.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like an absolute ass, I was trying to delete some drafts of things that i wasn't really happy with and somehow managed to delete the shit out of the master file for this fic. And after about 10 minutes of blind panic, I restored the file and all was well.  
> But damn, those five minutes when I was pretty damn sure I'd deleted the whole thing forever were pretty not-awesome. Because I'm honestly pretty happy with how this thing heads from here on out and was beyond confident I was not gonna be able to recreate the fic anywhere near as well as i wrote it the first time.  
> Again, fixed things pretty quickly with no issue, but damn if it wasn't awful, panic, terrifying for like 10 minutes. And now I have this thing saved in like nine different places so it can't get deleted. Basically.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, this chapter features deus ex machina Oliver, off being an adorable little superhero hacker and giving Frank and Laurel some much needed information.

“You’re family are all assholes,” Frank announces as he helps unzip her dress later, once they’re well hidden away in the guest room. “And your dad’s employees are all dicks.”

Laurel turns, gives him an affectionate smile once he’s drawn the zipper fully down, rolls her eyes at him a little because, yeah, he's kinda drunk. He didn't mean to be, not really, but then he and Laurel and Jaime got into a very intense discussion about mob movies and then there was tequila and eventually poker and Hector and Enrique and the rum and here he is. A little drunk. At least he thinks that's how it went down.

Laurel’s handling her liquor better than he is, but he thinks maybe she paced herself better, declined a couple of rounds by letting herself do that thing where she fades into the background, goes ignored and overlooked. Frank’s tried that before, always fails. He thinks it's the beard, and maybe that he’s taller and broader and takes up way more space than Laurel, but also that there’s a heaviness about him that Laurel lacks, something that demands attention be paid to him at all times. He suspects maybe it's the low warning of brutal violence that he wears like a cloak, but well, he’s also drunk, so what does he know.

“C’mon killer,” Laurel says, kisses his jaw and pushes lightly on his chest, sending him back, the backs of his knees knocking into the bed so hard he has to sit. “Sleep it off. We’ve got an exciting morning ahead of us.”

Frank leans back on his elbows, watches Laurel remove her earrings, necklace. “I don't want you to go tomorrow,” he blurts out before he can help himself, before he can swallow the words, rethink his decision to speak. 

She turns sharply, looks at him steadily. “I know,” she finally says, and there’s a softness in her eyes he can't decide if he hates. “I’m sorry, I have to.”

He nods, because, even drunk, he knew that’d be her answer. “I know,” he echoes. “I just needed to tell you.”

Laurel approaches, comes and stands between his legs. She puts her hands on his shoulders, stares at him, then runs her left hand through his hair, gently, like he’s a child, carding through the strands and sliding against his scalp. “I really, really love you,” she tells him. “And I don't think I could do this without you. So thank you for going along with it, even though you don't want to.”

“I love you,” he says, shrugging helplessly. “What else can I do?”

She leans down, kisses him, one hand against his cheek. He feels himself leaning into her touch, craving contact with her skin. “I’ll try to make it up to you. Someday.”

“I know you will,” he assures her. “But you don't have to. It's not a transaction.”

She laughs shortly. “I’ll do it cause I want to.” She shrugs out of her dress then, lets it pool at her feet, between their bodies.

His eyes head south to her breasts and he can suddenly focus on nothing else, his mouth going dry. Yeah, he’s pretty drunk if he can’t even pretend to focus on Laurel and instead just ogles her tits like a teenaged boy. And Laurel clearly picks up on it, gives him a weary, affectionate smile. “Too bad you're a little drunk and I’m a little exhausted or I’d make it up to you now.”

Frank grins, kisses her neck more sloppily than he really intended, accepts the reality behind her words. “Rain check.”

“After the meet tomorrow,” Laurel agrees. “As long as neither of us are in jail.”

He loosens his tie, unbuttons his waistcoat, Laurel’s fingers moving to assist him. He’s clumsy, slow and fumbling, the tequila sitting heavy in his veins as he watches Laurel’s quick fingers. He loves this, these moments when they work in tandem, where they know each other’s thoughts, actions as though they’re their own. He wants to tell her, but the words to do it stick in his throat. “We’re not going to jail,” is all he tells her instead.

“We're not going to jail,” she echoes sounding unconvinced, as she pushes his shirt slowly down his arms, smoothes her hands over the planes of his shoulders. “So, was this the worst Christmas ever?”

Frank chuckles, catches her hips as she goes to step back. “We’ll have to wait till the hangover hits tomorrow morning.”

“Well, if that's gonna be the deciding factor I’ll count that as a win,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I think I have some aspirin in my bag if you want.”

“Nah,” he tells her. “It won't be so bad. I’m hoping if I brush my teeth I can eliminate the taste of tequila and shame.”

She rolls her eyes, kisses him, humming as she pulls away. “You do taste like tequila and shame,” she says with a laugh, tugging at his wrist until he stands. “But it's a good shame.”

He gets up slowly, goes to the bathroom and brushes the lingering taste of liquor from his mouth, while Laurel sheds the rest of her clothes. 

He’s just rinsing the last of the toothpaste from his mouth when he hears the door crack open, hears the soft pad of Laurel’s feet as she enters the bathroom. She's pulled on one of his shirts, blinking slowly as Frank watches her in the mirror, running a hand gently through her hair, pushing the wild strands away from her face.

She reaches across his body to take her toothbrush, bandaged hand running along he expanse of his back, curling her body against his side, sluggish and warm. “Drink water,” she tells him around her toothbrush. “I need you on your toes tomorrow.”

He grins thinly, watches her out of the corner of his eye as he fills a glass, drinks it. Laurel smiles at him, softly, though Frank still thinks something about her looks drawn, rubbed raw and ragged. “I know, I know.”

“Could you help me with this?” she asks him when she’s finished, holding her injured hand out to him.

“What?” he asks, taking her right hand in his, letting his thumb glide against her palm, softly enough he thinks he won't cause her too much pain. 

“The bandage, it just feels gross now.”

He peels the tape back, unwraps the gauze from her hand, trying to be slow and gentle, though his alcohol soaked brain still notices the slight narrowing at the corners of Laurel’s eyes, the tensing of her fingers, the way she bites her lip just slightly.

“Sorry,” he tells her uselessly.

“You’re fine,” she insists. “I forget about it most of the time.”

Frank hums, still tracing his fingers along the edges of her stitches. “I wish I could forget about it.”

She catches his eyes, looks at him for a long beat, something like worry in her glance. “I think it shook you up worse than it did me.”

“I thought he was gonna fucking kill you,” Frank confesses, before he thinks to swallow the words.

After a moment Laurel nods. “I know, I could see it in your eyes. When you hit Hector,” she bites her lip as though she’s not sure she wants to continue either. “You looked like you do when you come back from a job. Like you're not really with me.”

“I’m not sure I was,” he admits, hating that it was so easy for him to go to that place of violence, of mindless blind rage and fear. He just wanted to kill anything that was hurting her, but that's not anything that can help her in any way. He knows that, is smart enough to admit that.

“You gotta stay with me Frank,” she tells him. “I need you with me.”

He nods. “I know.”

She holds his eyes for what seems like minutes; Frank feels like she’s checking his sincerity, measuring the weight of his words, finally nods. She wraps her arm around his bicep, fingers tightening slightly, kisses his jaw. “God,” she mutters finally.

“I think I can still taste the tequila.”

He chuckles lightly. “Is this the wrong time to point out you also smell like an eighty year old chain smoker?”

Laurel sniffs at her arm, wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, I do. How’d you manage to avoid reeking like an ashtray?”

Frank shrugs. “Stood downwind.”

Laurel laughs, kisses his cheek. “Well, get used to it,” she tells him. “I’m pretty sure this is the official scent of Castillo Christmas.”

“Good thing we agreed to do Christmas with my folks next year,” he says, taking her hand and drawing her backwards towards the bedroom, towards sleep. “My uncles all smoke outside.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to argue about how that's completely untrue.”

He chuckles, pulls her down onto the bed beside him. “Good. It's poor form to argue with a drunk.”

“Only way you’re winning any arguments with me, so appreciate it while you can.”

“Luckily between my mom and Annalise and now you I’m well-versed in losing arguments,” he tells Laurel, watching her swing her legs into the bed, punch the pillow until it puffs slightly and settle herself heavily against the headboard.

Laurel laughs quickly, shoots him a flashing grin. “One of these days I'm gonna tell Annalise’s brat pack what a softie you are, totally ruin your rep.”

“You wouldn't dare,” he warns.

Her grin grows wide and teasing. “Totally would. Though it’d be a bit of a bummer to spoil the joy I get in seeing her students cower around you.”

“You oughta hear them gossip about you and me,” he tells her. “Zoolander bet the Rabbi that you’re suffering from Stockholm syndrome.”

Laurel laughs. “He might have a gambling problem actually. I overheard him betting Turtle that I tie you up and dominate you.”

Frank gives a little disbelieving snort. “I can't decide whether I should run with that and fuck with him or make his life hell for speculating about my sex life.”

“How bout both?” Laurel asks, grabbing her phone from the nightstand and, Frank thinks, setting her alarm. “What I wouldn't give for that to be my biggest worry right now.”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees, kicking slightly at the sheets until Laurel shoots him a look and he stills. “Me too. Though, honestly, I’m gonna have way too much fun screwing with them about you and me gettin’ hitched.”

“You know Trust Fund is gonna be heartbroken,” Laurel says, sounding, to Frank’s ears, a little sarcastic. “She lusts after your sweet beard.”

Frank gives her an incredulous look. “She wants to sleep with _both_ of us,” he tells her. “She ogles your legs pretty much constantly.”

“We could take her up on it,” Laurel suggests, raising her eyebrows, a look he can’t interpret on her face, half-smiling and eyes bright. And Frank decides he is way too intoxicated, because he honestly can't tell whether she’s joking or not. He’s not really sure that Trust Fund’d be his first choice for a threesome, but well, it's not just his taste that would need to be considered. And if he’s being honest, he’s really not capable of even thinking about something like that right now, even if he was sober, because sex is great, but keeping Laurel alive and out of jail is where his focus needs to be.

He must look a little rattled because Laurel chuckles, knocks his shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Relax,” she tells him. “Trust Fund’s not really my type.”

“I know,” he says, trying to keep up with her, with the line of her thoughts, pretty sure he’s falling behind, even more so than usual. “She’s a basic bitch.”

She laughs sharply, leans back against the mattress. “You’re a good man Frank,” she says, voice suddenly serious, shifting her body so she can look over at him.

He turns his head, meets her eyes and tries not to frown. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists. “For a man who’s convinced he’s bad, you really are a good man.”

* * *

 

  
“Fuck,” Frank mutters the next morning, wishing he was slightly more eloquent, but not sure there’d be a better way to express his current feelings even if he was.

Laurel, sitting beside him in the driver’s seat of Hector’s car turns her head minutely, but gives no other indication that she’s heard him. Until, after a long minute, her mouth opens and she repeats his little curse. “Fuck,” she echoes and Frank thinks he detects agreement in her voice.

They’re sitting, half slumped in the seats, across the street from the coffee shop Laurel set as the meeting place with Barrow, watching the entrance. Frank isn't sure why they’re bothering, they’re over an hour early and there’s no one in the thin crowd that looks remotely like they could be a Fed. But they both agreed they needed to do the legwork, needed to be sure there wasn't some kind of trap, before moving forward.

Frank’s pretty sure that even if they can’t see the trap, there’s one there, ready to spring. But they’ll prepare as best they can, try to prevent the obvious disasters so they can focus on the subtle ones, the unseen knife hidden in the darkness.  
Laurel’s phone bings and they both jump practically out of their skin, Laurel’s face blanching so suddenly it sets his breath catching. She glances at it for what seems like an eternity, then passes the phone to Frank.

“Ollie comes through again, huh?” Frank mutters, scanning the text a second time, confirming the information it contains.

“I had no doubts,” Laurel says, voice like a sigh.

“So Alain got sentenced to twelve years, minimum, but gets out in nine and a half. No parole,” Frank mutters, brow furrowing.

“If that doesn't seem fishy, I don't know what does.”

She nods and they trade the phone back again, only a slight tremble to her hands. “He made a deal with someone, that's for damn sure.”

“Gotta figure out if it was Barrow. Or someone else.”

“Gotta figure out if that's why he was killed too. For talking,” she frowns hard, glances away from Frank, somewhere over his shoulder, like she can’t face him when she speaks. “Whether someone just tried to make it look like my dad.”

“You think that might be it?” he asks, tries to keep his voice so, so neutral, not give away how unlikely he thinks that scenario is.

“No,” Laurel shakes her head, still keeps her eyes fixed on the street, blinking hard like she’s fighting tears. “No, it was him. I _know_ it was him. But Alain might’ve been trying to trade what he still knew. That might be why he wound up dead.”

“You really think talking sealed the deal or was he a dead man walking anyway?” Frank asks.

She sighs. “Second he got out he was a man with a bullet waiting for him.”

Frank’s mouth twists, grimaces before he can help himself, trying to fight the sinking feeling in his stomach, leaving him sick and cold with something he decides is dread. “And you still think flipping on your dad is something you should do?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Alright,” he nods around the growing lump in his throat. “We’ll make it work, figure it out.”

She nods, but he thinks that, more than anything, all he sees is resignation in her eyes; the belief that no matter what happens she must stay the course, that there is only one path left open to her. “We always do.”

There’s another bing from her phone and Laurel glares at the device. “More Oliver,” she tells him. “He couldn't find any financial information for Alain, probably cause he was smart enough to use a different name. But Barrow made three trips to Albuquerque between June and October. Rented a car, didn't use a government issue.”

“Means he needed to keep things quiet,” Frank guesses. “Oliver know if he was there before June? If he's gonna back since?  Maybe he’s got family there or something and it's a personal trip.”

“He didn't say. But he wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't significant.”

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand roughly through his beard. “Yeah, Oliver’d be smart enough to skip extraneous details.”

“He couldn’t find any hotel receipts, but Oliver says he regularly gassed up in Taos, spent money at some bars, restaurants,” she reads, staring intently at the phone as though it has the answers to all her questions, all the mysteries that haunt her.

“Anywhere else he spent money in New Mexico?” he asks, catching her eyes as she glances up.

She shakes her head. “So Barrow knew about Alain, knew where he was.”

“And was talking to him,” Frank adds. “He must’ve been.”

Laurel nods.

“So what do you think that means?”

“I don't know,” she whispers, reaching over and taking his hand, slipping her icy fingers through his. “I don't know.”

“You think talking to Barrow will make it clear?” he asks softly, stroking his thumb across her knuckles. “Clearer, at least?”

“It's got to,” she says, voice breathy, like she’s praying, begging, like as long as she believes it, the truth will emerge and bear itself to her.

“He’ll give something away,” Frank says, thinks he’s clinging to the same false hope as Laurel, wishes he didn't have to. “He’s not as smart as you. Or, if he is, you’ll trade answers for answers.”

“Yeah,” she smiles tentatively, slips her phone into her pocket, breathes deep like she’s steeling herself, drawing strength into her body. “We’ll get to the bottom of whatever’s going on with Alain and Barrow and my dad.”

“I trust you,” he tells her, meets her eyes unflinching and unblinking. “And I’ve got your back.”


	46. Chapter 46

“You ready to do this?” Laurel asks, tone flat as though she’s already putting on armor, already distancing herself from what she must do, unable to think, only capable of action.

“No,” he answers honestly. He feels like he’s walking with her to the gallows, delivering Laurel to her own execution, a hard pit of roiling terror growing heavy in his stomach, crawling up his throat to choke his breathing.

“Me neither,” she answers quietly, a Frank can hear the first tremors of fear creeping into her voice. “If I…if I go somewhere else, you gotta bring me back.”

“Laurel,” he pleads. “If you think that's gonna happen, we can't do this. We gotta walk away because he’ll see it and he’ll know he’s got you.”

Her jaw tightens as she scowls, turns away from him as though he’s completely abandoned her, as though she’s been betrayed, can no longer consider him an ally, is no longer worthy of being included in her plans. “I reached out to him Frank, he already knows he’s got me.”

Frank sighs heavily. “We’ve beaten worse odds before.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, though he can hear nothing in her voice that indicates that his words actually register. Laurel sighs, slides her palms against the tops of her thighs, back and forth, once, then twice. She yanks the door open, propels herself out of the car, slams the door shut as though she is afraid she will reconsider. She looks like she wants to fling the keys from her body, like she wants to get back in the car more than she’s wanted anything in her life.

Frank climbs out slowly, shuts the door gently, trying to give her as much time to reconsider as possible. She threads a hand through her hair, pushes the strands back and away from her face. Laurel meets Frank’s eyes over the roof of the car, and he watches her shoulders square, watches her draw herself up straight, her body stiff and taut, rigid and tense. He thinks, just for a moment, and then regrets it, wishes he had any other thought, wishes he could forget it completely; he thinks of a gun’s safety sliding off, of the moments of sudden, sharp stillness and silence just before the violence erupts.

But she lets him take her hand as they enter the coffee shop, doesn't flinch when his hand slides to the small of her back as she passes ahead of him through the doorway out to the patio, though Frank can still feel the corded steel of her muscles, tight and knotted and tense, like a spring wound tight, like a trap ready to spring shut.

He watches Laurel asses the available tables through narrowed eyes, give him an enquiring little glance, asks silently for his opinion before choosing one. He inclines his head slightly towards the farthest table, nestled against the patio railing and the side of the building. Frank thinks they can watch both the door and the street from that table, thinks this may be the table they need, though it is farthest from the exit if they find the need to flee. He suspects though, that if it becomes a question of them fleeing, they’re fucked already, should just give up and roll over and kiss it all goodbye.

Laurel seems to agree, takes the seat closest to the building, scrapes the chair back with a metallic whine and settles into it. Frank sits heavily beside her, wishes he had a gun or a knife, or hell, even a good pair of brass knuckles, anything so that he didn't feel quite so defenseless, so useless and weak, so completely incapable of doing anything to protect or assist Laurel, so exposed and ready to get a knife is his back.

“We should’ve brought the paper with us,” Laurel says after a long minute spent watching the other patrons, watching the sidewalk with quick glances.

“I can grab one from inside,” Frank offers, feeling like he needs something, anything to do. “I think I saw one on a table.”

“We can do the crossword while we wait,” she suggests, sounding unenthusiastic, running her thumbnail against the rough wood grain of the table, sliding against one of the seams.

“Yeah?” he asks, flat of his hands pressing against the table, ready to get to his feet. He will do anything she asks today, will deny her nothing if she thinks it will make the day easier.

Laurel shakes her head. “I’m terrible at the crossword at the best of times.”

He tries to chuckle. “Yeah, but it’d take your mind off things. Make you mad about something other than Barrow and your dad.”

She hums, the corners of her mouth turning up into something that might have once become a smile. “If those were the only things I was mad about I’d be ecstatic,” she tells him, not meeting his eyes, her focus still turned out towards the street, the rest of the café.

“You mad about anything coffee will improve? Maybe a scone too?”

She cracks a slow grin. “Coffee improves everything, you know that.”

“Coming right up then,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll find you some pastries too.”

Her grin widens. “Last time I was here they made amazing Danishes.”

“They have apple?”

She nods. “If you're lucky.”

He tries to give her a cocky grin, the one he knows she loves, can't resist. “Then let's hope for a Christmas miracle.”

He goes inside the café, orders two coffees, a blueberry muffin and an apple Danish, idly watches the sparse crowd inside the shop. There are a few couples chatting quietly in the couches and overstuffed armchairs in the corner of the coffee shop, and a number of people reading or typing furiously on their laptops, cups of half-drunk, long-forgotten coffee beside them. He wishes he knew what Feds looked like on their off days, wishes he knew whether the woman reading _War and Peace_ near the window is just bored and distracted or if she’s a plant, watching Laurel out on the patio, reporting back to her masters somehow; wishes he could peer into the minds of the uncomfortable looking couple hiding behind their phone screens, barely looking up to take quick sips from their mugs, see if their unease is due to some recent fight or something else, something more sinister.

Frank’s name is called to pick up the drinks before he lets himself feel anymore unjustified paranoia, goes back to the table with their food. Laurel greets him with a deep frown. 

“The woman inside by the window there,” she says, eyes flicking towards where she’s indicated. “In the blue shirt. You think she’s a Fed?”

She’s talking about the woman reading Tolstoy, Frank realizes; the same one who made him slightly suspicious, who set his hackles rising. He thinks that if they both have a bad feeling about her, it's probably based on something, probably not just an overworked danger sense.

“Yeah, might be,” Frank admits, though he desperately wishes he could pretend the woman is just more interested in people watching than in her book. But he thinks there’s something about her, something a little too tense, a little too stiff, a little too watchful and maybe a little too polished for a coffee shop at 10:00 a.m. the day after Christmas.

“She’s probably the advance person,” Laurel says, still keeping her eyes on the woman, even as Frank hands over her coffee. “Making sure I don't have friends with guns waiting in the wings.”

She flashes Frank a grateful smile as he sits, but he can tell her attention remains fixed on the woman. “I’m gonna tell Barrow his undercover team needs work. You think everyone worth a damn was away for the holiday?”

Frank chuckles, sips at his coffee. It's good; thick and rich and smooth; he thinks Laurel will probably hate it. He's right, sees her make a face, scowl at the mug as though it's offended or insulted her. “Possibly,” he says. “We could screw with him; leave a message at the counter changing the meet to McDonald’s or something. Get rid of the spectators and have the added advantage of getting you some rocket fuel.”

The corners of her mouth quirk up around the rim of her mug. Frank notices that even if she doesn't like it, she continues to drink the coffee. “Tempting, but I think we should pass. This already too much subterfuge for me.”

“And here I thought we’d get to go full spy movie,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows sarcastically. “Maybe put on some disguises, hide behind newspapers.”

“I’m not sure you’d be able to pull off a Groucho Marx mustache,” she tells him, grin wicked. “Especially with the beard.”

He hums slightly, bumps his shoulder against hers. “Bet you could though.”

“Yeah?”

“I think you could definitely rock a giant fake stache and some glasses,” he tells her with a laugh, tearing a piece off the blueberry muffin.

She smiles stiffly, and Frank follows her gaze back to the woman reading War and Peace. The woman is looking out the window again, her book abandoned on the table in front of her, seemingly staring past their table towards the street. Frank thinks that she’s really just staring at them, trying not to make her focus on them obvious, but failing. “I hope someone forces her to finish that book.”

“It's _War and Peace_ by the way,” Frank tells her, because from where they’re sitting he’s not sure that Laurel can see the title.

“That’s why I was suspicious of her. If she was using it as more than a prop she wouldn’t look so bored.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “You and Russian lit.”

“Hey,” he says, frowning seriously. She’s not wrong though, Russian novels are kind of his thing. “Russian novels are the best novels. And no one more than a hundred pages into _War and Peace_ looks as bored as that lady.”

Laurel steals a piece off the muffin, pops it into her mouth. “I just thought she looked out of place. Too polished. And a woman like her doesn't go to a coffee shop alone. There's always a boyfriend or a couple friends. She doesn't go to a place like this to study or read.”

“And girls like her definitely don't read Tolstoy in coffee shops?”

Laurel shrugs. “Basically.”

“People’d probably say the same about you,” Frank teases, though he knows the kernel of truth behind his words. People are always underestimating Laurel, assuming she’s just some pretty girl or some bookish girl, never realizing just how cunning she really is. “Beautiful girls rarely study Admin Law.”

She rolls her eyes, covers his hand with her own for just a moment. “You think I’m pretty,” she says in a sing-songy voice, grinning wide.

“Yeah,” he tells her, knocking her shoulder, capturing her hand between his, threading the fingers of his right hand through hers. “I do. And smart.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says. “Glad I locked you down.”

He goes to say something a little snarky, but feels Laurel’s body stiffen through their joined fingers. He looks up, follows her gaze to the door into the coffee shop, sees the man from Jorge’s photo, the man from Laurel’s nightmares, stepping out onto the patio. He’s a little older than the photo, a little more gray in his hair, a few more lines in his face, looking just a little more haggard and drawn. But he has the same cold confidence that showed through the picture, walks with a hard, steady certainty. He’s in a suit, navy, every inch the Federal Agent, even today, the day after Christmas, a Saturday no less.

He turns as he comes onto the patio, strides straight towards them, no uncertainty about where Laurel had been sitting. He doesn't even seem surprised at Frank’s presence, just nods cooly at the two of them and sits, crossing his arms over his chest as he does. Laurel remains still beside him, not taking her hand from Frank’s, but he doesn't feel her fingers tighten over his, doesn't feel a flinch echoing through her body. He hopes, prays that's a good sign and not an indication that she’s gone somewhere far away, retreated into herself where nothing can hurt.

“Ms. Castillo,” Barrow says as he sits. “It's a pleasure to see you again,” his eyes flick to Frank, watch him for a long moment before turning back to Laurel. “Who’s this?”

“Frank,” she answers shortly.

“And who is Frank?” he asks patiently. Frank suspects Barrow’s probably had plenty of experience with being patient, with waiting for a case to come together, for a suspect to confess, suspects that he won't be at all rattled by Laurel, or by Frank’s unexpected presence. “Did your father finally wise up and get you a bodyguard?”

Laurel makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Frank’s something like that,” she says giving him a little glance out of the corner of her eye, removing her hand from his, spreading both her palms flat against the table on either side of her mug. Frank thinks she doesn't look scared anymore, looks closer to resigned but can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not. She's trying to be brave, her voice sounds thicker than he’s used to, heavier, but there's no tremor in her limbs and she holds Barrow’s gaze without flinching.

“Would you mind asking him to leave please?” Barrow asks, inclining his head slightly towards Frank, but his eyes never leave Laurel’s; he watches her as though he thinks if he takes his eyes off her she will vanish. Frank thinks that maybe Barrow believes it's true, that after ten years and who knows how many attempts to turn Laurel, take down Jorge, he’s finally in sight of his goal, and he's worried, terrified really, that something will snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, that Laurel will balk, will change her mind. Frank hopes its true; hopes even now she will change her mind, will step away from this terrible, doomed plan.

“I would,” Laurel tells him shortly, shifting in her seat so that her body draws closer to Frank's, her right hand slides off the table to his thigh, anchoring him in place, anchoring her to him. “He stays or you get nothing.”

Barrow shrugs, though Frank sees the beginning of a frown, sees his shoulders stiffen. “Fine. What do you have for me then?”

Laurel smiles, shark-like, and shakes her head. It reminds Frank of nothing so much as her father, of the moment when he knows he’s tasted victory, sunk a hook so deep into someone that he knows they won’t be able to shake. Frank thinks that Laurel knows she’s gotten Barrow, will get the promises she needs from him to go forward, will get the information from him that she craves. “Not so fast,” she says. “We need to talk terms.”

“So talk terms,” he says, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, every inch exuding confidence and assurance. But Frank can see the lie, see the tension in Barrow’s jaw, the too shrewd look in his eyes. He’s hanging on every word Laurel speaks, practically salivating at the possibility of her confessing.

“I give you info and you don't even try use the law to get more, you let me walk away when I’m done.”

Barrow gives her a derisive look, smiles patronizingly. Even so, Frank knows he will accept the offer; there is no surprise in his eyes, nothing even approaching hesitation. “You’re gonna have to give me a lot for something like that.”

Laurel’s expression goes blank, neutral. Her hand on his knee is relaxed though, just resting against his skin. “I’ll give you whatever you want. But that's what I want.”

“You’ll need to give a signed statement. Likely taped. You may need to testify.”

“You really think I’m gonna let myself become your star witness?” she asks sarcastically. “This isn't that kind of conversation, Barrow.”

He shrugs. “Then no deal. I can and I will arrest you if I think you’re holding out, Ms. Castillo.”

“You can, but you _won't,_ ” she corrects, arching an eyebrow at him. “Because then you’ll tip your hand even more, let my dad know how desperate you really are.”

Barrow regards her cooly, recrosses his arms over his chest and leans forward slightly. He’s eager, Frank thinks, too eager to get something,  _anything_ from Laurel that he’ll take whatever she gives him. “Signed statement anyway. And I can always subpoena you, you know that.”

Laurel nods somberly, but then her smile goes wide, wicked, like a shark smelling blood, like a fighter sensing an opening, an injury, a weakness. “But I won't say shit if you do. You’ll have to commit yourself to a perjury charge. Imagine how that will look, Agent Barrow. I’ll have that spun to be a tragic tale of a bunch of overzealous Fed's going after the poor innocent law student who just tried to get away from her terrible criminal father, go legit, and you go after her, try to ruin her life to make your case. People love a good story about government overreach and I can fucking give them one.

“You can try,” Barrow says, voice a murderous growl. “And I will haul you in and question you until you _shatter_.”

Laurel continues to grin, nothing faltering in her pleased expression. She takes a slow sip of coffee, glances over at Frank. Frank wants to ask her what she thinks she’s doing, going into battle with this Fed, but something about Laurel’s grin makes him think she knows exactly what she’s doing, is in complete control of the current skirmish. He wishes he knew her plan, knew her intention, could help her out somehow, could at least know if the plan was going off the rails, because to him at least, that’s exactly where it seems headed. But then he sees the way her fingers clench, hard, around the rim of the mug, see her knuckles turn white, sees the tremor of fear in her eyes, in the way she glances at him for reassurance, for strength. “You couldn’t shatter me when I was already shattered,” she laughs. “You’re damn sure not going to do it now.”

Barrow hums and something sinister creeps into his eyes, though Frank can’t see anything else change in his expression. There’s just a darkening there, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, sudden and shocking. “How’s that brother of yours though? Hector? Wouldn't take much to break him. I had Engle try him out too; was half-surprised the call came from you and not him.”

Laurel’s jaw tenses, but her grin doesn't slip. Instead of looking mocking, carefree, Frank thinks her smile takes on the look of a grimace, of a snarl, like she’s seconds away from launching herself across the table at Barrow’s throat. He wouldn't put it past her, honestly, and he slips his hand against her knee, just lets it softly rest against her leg until he can feel her relax half a degree. “Ok, Barrow,” she tells him, her voice tense with fierce anger. “I’ll give you a signed statement and you pretend

Hector doesn't exist. Complete blanket immunity for him.”

He tries not to smile, but the corner of his mouth turns up, triumphant. “And if we need you to testify?”

Laurel covers Frank’s hand on her knee with her own, gives his fingers a squeeze he barely feels, but keeps her eyes fixed on Barrow, ever-watchful. “Agreed. But you need to keep me anonymous. No one can know I’ve talked. Ever.”

Barrow inclines his head, smiles slightly. Frank thinks that both Barrow and Laurel believe they have a bead on the other, think they now have the upper hand. He’s pretty sure that they’re both walking into a trap of some kind, he can feel the danger lurking somewhere in the back of his mind, feels the blade pressing against his throat. “Of course.”

“And I don't know anything about Nestor Serrano,” she tells him. “So don't even bother.”

“Yes,” he hums, sounding like he doesn't quite believe her, a smile that is almost mocking tugging at his lips. “So Agent Engle told me.”

Laurel’s jaw tightens and her eyes narrow slightly. “That was a pretty slick move Barrow,” she tells him, an edge of anger creeping in for half a second before she smothers it. “Sending in Engle.”

“Yes,” Barrow agrees, and while his mouth remains flat, Frank can see something sparkle in his eyes, something pleased, as though he is glad Laurel is getting rattled, that he's shaken her calm. “I thought so too.”

“You hoping he’d seduce me or something?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “Get a source on the inside?”

“Wasn't ruling anything out,” he admits with a shrug giving Laurel a strange little smirking grin.

“You’re not making it easy to want to tell you anything,” Laurel growls.

“Let's dispense with the fiction, Ms. Castillo,” Barrow tells her, sounding bored, drumming his fingers against the edge of the table. “The fiction that anything I do surprises you and the fiction that you’re not going to tell me what I need to put your father away.”

“So tell me about Nestor,” Laurel demands. “Then I’ll talk.”


	47. Chapter 47

“What do you need to know?” Barrow asks, voice calm, flat.

“When’d you get involved in the case?” she asks pointedly. “Who looped you in and when?”

“When the bodies were identified,” Barrow tells her smoothly. “We’ve had an alert put out on Nestor since he disappeared.”

“When were you notified?” Laurel presses. “I don't just want a date, Barrow, I want proof of that date.”

Barrow shrugs, his lips pressing together and frowning deeply. “I don't have that, but I can get it for you.”

She nods. “Fine. You only went to Taos after they were killed?”

Barrow stiffens, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s correct.”

“Had you ever been to Taos before?” Laurel presses hotly.

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never,” he confirms.

“Did you know Alain went there after he got out?” she asks, switching tactics.

Barrow shakes his head. “Not until I got the call that he was killed.”

“Nestor?” Laurel demands. “Did you know about him?”

“No,” Barrow tells her. “Or we would have picked him up. We don't generally let wanted men stay that way.”

Frank expects her to argue, to question Barrow, to force him to confront what she knows about his dealings with Alain, his furtive trips to Taos. But instead she just purses her lips, stares him down for a long moment, looking to Frank like she’s trying to figure out where to go from here, what tack to take to reach her goal, to uncover the truth. Finally she speaks, voice cold and flat. “Why did you send me a postcard from Taos?”

“Because it was time to send you another reminder,” he says simply, as though the answer is obvious. Frank doesn't think Laurel was expecting that, can see her stiffen slightly at the casual mention of Barrow’s ongoing efforts to turn her, at the nonchalance with which he speaks of the postcards that have been haunting her for a decade.

“What, you have a reminder set on your calendar?” Laurel asks harshly as Frank sees her close her left hand into a tight fist. He wishes someone would throw a punch, would just solve this with violence so that Laurel can stop torturing herself, stop ripping at her flesh, tearing at her heart in the hopes that she will solve everything, set everything right again.

Barrow smiles slightly, casually, makes a vague gesture with his hands. “Something like that.”

“You don't send reminders to my brother. Why me? Why keep it up for a decade?” she sounds harsh, accusing, desperate for an explanation for Barrow’s actions. Frank suspects it's futile, it's like asking a dog why it bit you, asking why you were mugged; it's useless and pointless and ignores the continuing danger. But he knows she needs an answer, an explanation, needs to make sense of things; why she’s been Barrow’s target since she was a teenager, why he continues to haunt her steps, why she is so important to him in his quest to topple Jorge. 

He thinks Laurel may crave an answer, a way to set in order the chaos of her life, but Frank wants to tell her that the only explanation she will ever get is that things happen because people are selfish assholes. That if she wants to know why Barrow has spent ten years trying to turn her, it's just because he’s a selfish asshole and he doesn't give a damn about what he does to her in his single minded efforts to destroy her father. He's not sure that will be a good enough reason for her, but he knows it's the only one she’ll ever get, because it's the only thing that's true.

Barrow’s quiet for a moment, continues to tap his knuckles against the wood of the table, idle and bored. “Because I’ve been doing this job for a long time and I’m very good at what I do. I can tell who’ll talk and who won't, who can handle the talking. You didn't look like much of a talker, but I knew you could handle it if you ever did.”

“If I’m not a talker, why keep it up so long?”

He shrugs, gives a wry smile. “Sometimes you gotta play the odds. The payoff would be worth it if you ever did.”

“That's assuming I know anything,” Laurel points out, tapping the fingertips of her left hand against the ceramic of her mug, mimicking Barrow’s gestures.

Barrow gives her a ironic smile. “Let's dispense with that fiction as well Ms. Castillo, please. You know plenty.”

“I’ll give you one leg of your RICO case,” she tells him before he’s even finished talking. Her voice is cold, controlled; Frank thinks she’s been planning this statement since they sat down, planning the offer and how to deliver it to make Barrow unable to resist. “How's that for dispensing with fictions, Agent Barrow?”

“Just one, Ms. Castillo?” Barrow asks smoothly. “That seems hardly worth what you’re asking from me.”

Laurel hums nonchalantly, smiles mockingly. “If you had the two crimes you needed to take him down, we wouldn't be here. So take what I’m offering.”

“What _are_ you offering?” he demands. “You still haven't made that clear.”

“I’ll give you one crime you need, but not both. An old one; that's all I have. Nothing glamorous like a murder. I don't know about anything like that,” she lies, fingers tearing at the remainder of the muffin. Her movements look too rapid to be bored, look more nervous than anything, but Frank thinks Laurel would know this too, wouldn't give away any tension so obviously. He wonders what she’s playing at, if she’s faking for Barrow, if she’s simply making unconscious gestures, too focused on his reaction, on the outcome of her offer.

“Drugs?” Barrow asks, eyes narrowing as they flick down to Laurel’s hands, back to her face, testing, judging something, though Frank cannot tell what.

Laurel shrugs. “Possibly. Do we have a deal?”

“I’ll let you walk out of here, won't press you further and you’ll give me solid evidence of a drug crime committed by your father.”

She nods. “And you give me hard evidence it was my dad, or someone on his orders who killed Nestor. I don't talk if it wasn't him.”

Barrow rolls his eyes, sighs tiredly and leans back in his chair. “You need more evidence than the pictures Agent Engle showed you?”

“I do.”

“Are you fishing Ms. Castillo?” he asks with a smirk. “I hope you know you don't fish the FBI.”

“No, not fishing,” she says. “But I’m not talking if you don't prove you have the other crime. I’m not flipping if you can't come through.”

“Your father was in Juarez the week that Nestor Serrano was killed,” Barrow tells her. He watches Laurel intently, watches her reactions, barely blinking. Frank tries tries to watch both of them, keep one eye on each of them. Laurel has no reaction, he thinks she expected to be told something like this, she stays blank faced and stony, unresponsive. “We have cell records, credit card transactions for most of that week. And the rest of that month. The strange thing is, the three days surrounding the murder, his cards and his cell phone went dark. No record of him anywhere. No record of any of his lieutenants. Not even security footage of anyone from the hotel where he was staying.”

“Because you think he was in Taos?” she laughs, takes a long sip of her coffee so she can watch Barrow’s reaction. “We both know what my dad does; he goes off the grid for plenty of reasons. Doesn't mean murder.”

“We’ve got agents scouring camera footage from the city,” he says, pursing his lips, threading his fingers together and resting his hands casually on the table. Frank thinks this is a deliberate gesture, a concerted effort to appear confident, at ease. Frank’s not entirely sure he buys it, hopes Laurel doesn't either. “We’ll find something.”

She laughs, mean and bladed and mocking, but sets her mug down daintily, so softly Frank can’t hear it settle on the table. He thinks that certainly Laurel’s anger, her casual mockery is an act, disguising something else, something like fear, can practically taste it, feel it coming off her body in waves. He thinks though, that Barrow can’t tell, thinks he believes the lie Laurel is selling. “Good luck Agent Barrow. You don't have shit.”

“We will,” he promises and Laurel laughs again.

“You won't,” she counters. “You've been after him since I was a child and you still don't have shit.”

Barrow tenses, glares. “Tell me about his smuggling ops.”

Laurel stares at him across the table, crosses her arms over her chest. “No. You haven't earned it.”

He looks shocked, angry. His voice raises, but then he swallows the sound, words going down to a rasping, harsh whisper, laced with anger. “I have to earn it? Bullshit. I could arrest you right now.”

“Just try,” she tells him, a challenge in her voice. “I’ll be out in an hour. And I definitely won't talk if you do.”

“You’re not talking now,” Barrow points out.

“You’re not proving you can do anything with what I tell you.”

Barrow leans forward, leans on his elbows, resting heavy against the table. “Tell me about his drug smuggling operation,” he repeats. “Or your brother’s fair game again.”

Laurel grins wide, he thinks she ignores the line about Hector because the one preceding it signals to her that she’s rattled Barrow, hooked him; proves he has nothing without her. “Prove to me you actually know something. Then I’ll talk.”

“He imports through El Paso mostly,” Barrow tells her. “But he uses boats too, through the Caribbean.”

Her face is impassive, raises an eyebrow as she takes the last of the danish, chews it slowly. “Ten years and that's all you have?”

Barrow laughs slightly. “I have more, but that's all you’re getting. I’m not giving away my case, not when I still don't trust you not to go back to you father with this. Sink what I do have.”

Laurel chuckles, rolls her eyes. “If you think that’s my plan you’re a terrible investigator.”

“Forgive me for not being terribly interested in your petty familial drama,” Barrow says mockingly.

“My ‘petty familial drama’ is the only reason you're getting this information at all.”

“So far you haven't given me shit,” Barrow quips, voice nearly a growl, glancing at his watch. Frank tries not to roll his eyes, tries not to snort at the too obvious gesture. He knows Barrow isn't going anywhere, has all day for Laurel, for the chance that she will give him something, some useful tidbit that will lead to an arrest, to toppling Jorge’s empire.

“So far you haven't given me a reason to give you shit,” Laurel counters, though her tone doesn't change in any way, doesn't give away any of the anger or frustration or fear she may be feeling. Frank feels a tremor of fear he can’t suppress shoot through him, settle somewhere low in his gut and in his fingertips, tingling and hot. He thinks this was a terrible plan, thinks it remains a terrible plan, because it's becoming rapidly more obvious that Special Agent Barrow can't protect Laurel, doesn't have a damn thing he can use to topple Jorge, is really just throwing punches in the dark, trying to connect with something. He’s not worthy of the sacrifice Laurel has decided to make; she’s willing to hand over the keys to taking her father down to a man who hasn't even found the door. He thinks there’s no way Laurel gets out of this safely, not when the man now tasked with protecting her and the information she has is so fundamentally behind in the game as to not even be playing it. Frank thinks that, like always, they’ll just have to protect themselves, that he’ll make sure he has Laurel’s back and they’ll find a way out, a way to stay safe. “Give me proof you can get a conviction and you’ll get the proof you need to do it.”

“You're treating this like this is a transaction.”

“This _is_ a transaction,” Laurel snaps. “Of course it's a transaction.”

“So give me something.”

“My dad has a boat,” Laurel tells him, after a moment, seemingly considering how much information to give Barrow. “Put eyes on the boat. You’ll get something soon enough.”

“What boat?” Barrow asks, eyes sharpening, leaning forward slightly. “Where’s it docked?”

“It’s a big fishing boat or a small yacht, berthed in Miami. He doesn't register it under his own name.”

“What name?” Barrow asks, voice hoarse and choked, like he’s trying to suppress, tamp down his excitement. “Where in Miami?”

Laurel hums, mouth quirking, taps her fingers again against her mug, nails pinging lightly against the ceramic. “Nope, you’re not getting any more than that. I’m not doing your job for you.”

“Ms. Castillo,” Barrow begins.

She cuts him off with a quick shake of her head. “No. If ‘follow the money’ was good enough to take down Nixon, you shouldn't have a problem.”

“I need more,” he tells her, sounding desperate, a catch thickening his words. “I can’t just follow your father until he leads me to his boat.”

She hums, lips quirking slightly, glances over at Frank. “He won't lead you to the boat. He doesn't use it himself. This is just a boat for work.”

“Then how do I find it?” he asks. “And how do I tie the boat to him?”

“Once you find the boat, follow the money of course,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“How do I find it?” Barrow repeats, still sounding strangled. “How do I find the boat? You have to give me that.”

Laurel frowns, runs her scarred thumb across her lips. “Miami Yacht Club,” she tells him finally. “Miami Yacht Club down to the Bahamas, Cuba, sometimes Puerto Rico. There won't be a record of docking, but there’ll be a record of the bribes if you look hard enough; maybe you can find a manifest. But I doubt it.”

“Where in the Bahamas? The Outer Islands?”

She nods, tries not to snort derisively as her eyes roll again. “Yeah, but I don't know where. They used to use the Exumas, but that was ten years ago. And that's all I feel like giving you.”

“I could make you tell me more,” he tells her haughtily.

Laurel laughs, the sound light, almost a giggle. Frank wonders at the sound, wonders what her thinking is, how she could think this is fun or funny or anything other than playing chicken with a freight train. “No, Barrow, you can't,” she tells him, breezily, her smile positively feral. Frank wonders again at Laurel, at her confidence, her certainty that she will be able to come through this meeting unscathed, will be able to take on her father’s cartel, the FBI, and not only survive, but emerge as the winner. “And if you push me harder I’m telling my dad the boats been burned. And you’ll have nothing. Again.”

Barrow looks incredulous , looks angry and shocked. “You wouldn't dare.”

Laurel snorts, grins. “Of course I would. I gave you only something I could walk back if I needed to.”

“And if I went after your brother?” he threatens.

“Then it's not just my dad you’ll have to worry about,” she vows, voice low. “You so much as have another agent glance at my brother and I will make sure you end your career as a paper pusher in Omaha.”

“Are you threatening a Federal Agent, Ms. Castillo?”

“No Agent Barrow, I’m not,” she tells him, eyes flashing as her jaw stiffens. “I’m just letting you know where the lines are.”

“The lines?” he asked incredulously. “There are no lines. There’s just legal and illegal.”

Laurel shakes her head. “No. There’s just lines; some movable, some not. Talking to my brother is an immovable one.”

“So is interfering with a federal investigation, you know,” he tells her, trying to sound casual, but Frank can still hear the threat, the violence and anger tinting his words.

“I have no intention of interfering with your investigation, such as it is,” she assures him. “It's just a question of whether I’ll assist you or not.”

“You haven't done much to assist me so far.”

Laurel gives him a derisive look. “You get that boat Agent Barrow and you’ll get your case.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine it will be as easy as you suggest,” he tells her, tenting his crossed fingers.

“That’s your problem, not mine,” she says with a shrug. “I gave you what you need. Just put the pieces together.”

“You think you're being righteous,” he tells her, glowering. “You think you’re being smart. You’re not. You’re playing both sides and you’re going to get caught in the middle.”

“I’m not doing either of those things,” Laurel says, and her voice slips into something like a hopeless sigh. “I’m just trying to survive.”

“I wish you luck with that Ms. Castillo,” Barrow tells her. “But so long as your father is still alive, still operating, you will always be hunted.”

“By you,” she insists, her voice low, accusing. “If you weren't a Fed, you’d be a stalker.”

“Really,” he says, grinning at her. “Don't be dramatic.”

Laurel’s eyebrows raise. “Dramatic? I have a lockbox full of postcards. Thirty eight at last count.”

He shrugs, sloughs off her words. “You’re a source. Nothing wrong with keeping tabs on you.”

“I’m not,” Laurel tells him. “Or I wasn’t. Either way, I think your superiors would probably have something to say about your methods of keeping tabs. Especially when I was a minor.”

“A minor with clear cartel ties,” Barrow points out darkly. “Age doesn't excuse your crimes.”

She scoffs, rolls her eyes. “Prove them Agent Barrow. You don't know shit about me, not anymore, not now the statute of limitations passed. But I know what game you’re playing, with Alain, with my dad. And if you even think about coming after me, I will put an end to that game.”

“You are trying to threaten me,” he says, sounding shocked, sounding enraged. “I could arrest you for that.”

“I’m not making threats,” Laurel insists, brows pulling together. “I’m just letting you know where we stand. And that I know you won’t do anything about it. Because you know we can each destroy each other.”

“The consequences will be worse for you,” Barrow threatens.

She inclines her head slightly, seemingly agreeing, conceding the point. “Maybe. But they’ll still be bad for you. I promise you, Agent Barrow, I will expose whatever you tried to pull with Alain.”

Barrow barely flinches. “I don't know what you mean.”

Laurel holds his gaze, face neutral. “Whatever deal you made with Alain that got him out three years early, kept him off parole. Yeah, I know about that. And I know you got him killed. Because if I figured out what you did, you can be sure every two-bit dealer figured it out too. And they followed you straight to a nice double homicide. Don't fuck with me, don't even think about fucking with me, or I will expose you.”

Barrow swallows thickly, convulsively, throat bobbing in what Frank hopes is fear, worry, even surprise.

Laurel doesn't even wait for him to speak though, doesn't even hesitate before continuing. “So, do we have an agreement? Or are you gonna walk out of here with worse than nothing?”

He hold Laurel’s gaze a long moment, extends his hand across the table as he nods once. “We have an agreement.” 

Laurel takes his hand and they shake, firmly, before Barrow pushes back from the table. “Don't try to take on the Bureau, Ms. Castillo,” he warns her. “You're not as smart as you think you are if you think you’ll have any success there.”

“Don't try and fuck me and I won't have to return the favor,” she tells him frankly. “I don't have to take on the Bureau, just you.”

He purses his lips, Frank thinks he struggles not to respond with something antagonizing. “I’ll have someone from the Philly office contact you if we need anything further.”

She shakes her head. “I don't want to hear from anyone unless you need a statement. And no more postcards, Barrow. We’re done.”

“No promises.”

“You don't promise; you lose everything I’m giving you,”she counters.

Barrow stands. “No postcards,” he agrees, tapping his knuckles against the table as though to emphasize his point. “But we have other ways of remaining in touch.”

Laurel’s eyes narrow but don't quite become a glare. “Don't push your luck Special Agent.”

“It was a pleasure as always Ms. Castillo,” he tells her. “Don't be a stranger.”

Her eyes stay on his back until he vanishes back into the café. She then turns her attention to the window into the coffee shop, back to the woman with _War and Peace._ The woman has given up all pretense at reading, is staring intently at Laurel, holding her gaze. Laurel glares daggers through the glass until finally the woman turns away, sheepishly, her eyes sliding away towards the interior of the coffee shop. Laurel stares at the woman a moment longer before finally glancing down at her hands, letting out a long, shuddering breath. Frank thinks he sees her hands shake for just a moment before she crushes them into fists, places them in her lap where they can both pretend the tremble doesn't exist.

“You ok?” Frank asks softly, taking a chance and settling his hand over both of hers, his other hand going to press against her back, feel her ragged breaths against his palm as he slides his hand up to her shoulder blades and down again.

She nods. “Yeah,” she tells him and something in her voice makes him believe her. There’s a strength there that he didn't expect, and something like surprise, like she hadn't expected to make it through the meeting, come out unharmed. “Yeah, I’m ok,” she says, and smiles tentatively up at him.


	48. Chapter 48

“I’m proud of you,” he tells her, taking her hand and threading his fingers through hers, squeezing gently. His other hand rises to tangle in her hair, sliding against her scalp, thumb moving against the spot at the back of her neck that sets her eyes slipping closed. “You did amazing.”

“We’ll see,” she replies brow furrowing, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Whatever he decides to do,” Frank insists. “You did amazing. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Her mouth quirks into another smile and Frank raises their joined hands, presses his lips to the back of her hand. “I hope I did the right thing.”

“Still time to walk it back,” Frank tells her. “You thinking you made a mistake?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. No, I think I did what I had to.”

“Good,” he says. “I don't want you to regret anything.”

“I think I needed to do that; stop thinking someone else would have the answers, would solve all my problems for me if I just trusted them. I think I needed to just trust myself, fucking save myself.”

Frank strokes his thumb over her knuckles, lets his forehead rest lightly against hers. “Smart,” he tells her. “Picking your own side.”

She shakes her head, just slightly. “Not my side, _our_ side, Frank. I’m gonna protect us; you and me, no matter what.”

“You don't have to do it alone. I’ve got your back too.”

“I know,” she squeezes his hand, inclining her body into his so their knees brush, so that her shoulders arc into his. “I know we’ll be ok. Whatever happens with my dad and Barrow, we’re gonna get through it and we’re gonna be ok.”

“Yeah,” he nods, hand going to her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ears as he gives her a soft smile. “We can get through anything you and me.”

“You know what I realized?” she asks giving him a hesitant smile. “That I don't care what happens with them; with my dad and Barrow. They can destroy each other, or not. I just want to go back to Philly, with you, and forget about them. Forget about all this, live a boring life, watch Netflix and eat ziti in my pajamas with you.”

“You gonna be able to?” he asks, thinking that sounds like a perfect plan. “Forget things? After all that?”

She nods again. “I think so. I realized I don't care if Barrow nails my dad or if he keeps struggling for another ten years. I don't care what happens to either of them, and I can’t make myself miserable worrying about it. I can't take out my dad on my own and I can’t trust Barrow. Nothing I do will make things better. I just have to get myself out, leverage what I have on both of them to escape, to convince them it's in their own damn interests to let me get out.”

“You mean it?” Frank asks, giving her a lopsided smile, squeezing their joined hands.

Laurel sighs. “My dad’s a horrible person, Frank, but so is Barrow. I think maybe I just have to accept that I’m never going to fix my dad and that trying to solve him or beat him is just hurting me. I think you’re right and I just need to walk away.”

“But what does that look like?” he presses. “You walked away before and then here we are anyway.”

“I just have to walk away, stop fooling myself into thinking I can have a relationship with him, or any of them, maybe,” she's silent a long moment, pulls her hand from his and rubs her thumb against the stitches on her palm, back and forth, presses hard against the still red flesh until she grimaces.

He thinks it's the admission that she has decided to cut herself off from her entire family that draws Laurel into herself, because as little as she and Hector have talked during the two years Frank’s been with her, he knows the responsibility she feels for him, doesn't know if she’ll be able to let herself abandon her brother, leave him at the mercy of the rest of her family, leave him alone and unprotected. 

Frank honestly isn't certain that that’s something Hector will even be able to handle, being left on his own to stand against Jorge, against the rest of the Castillos, doesn't know if Laurel’s brother has the strength, the unshakeable steel to be able to face them on his own without her. He’s not sure if Laurel has the strength in herself to walk away and find out, risk the outcome if he doesn't. She’s spent her entire adult life protecting Hector and Frank’s not entirely sure she even knows how to let him stand on his own anymore, not sure that she would know how to let herself pull back and leave Hector to struggle against the corrosive forces of their father, not sure that she isn't convinced the only possible outcome will be disaster. 

And Frank, he’s not sure whether that view is Laurel’s own ego, her own conviction that Hector can't fight them alone, but he suspects it's much more than that. He suspects that really, truly, Hector relies on his sister, can’t handle his family on his own, counts on Laurel to protect him and defend him and keep him from attacks. 

“I think this weekend proves that it's not good for anyone when I come down here.”

“That's a big decision Laurel,” he tells her softly, knowing what it would mean if she walked away from her entire family, left them without another look back, knows now how hard it will be for her to do it, doesn't want to lock her into this decision, into cutting herself off, wants to leave her room to reconsider if she chooses. Life is not a chess match, and if Laurel chooses to change her mind, well, she can walk back damn well anything she wants, reconsider anything. And Frank knows he’ll support it, support _her_ no matter what, without reservation. “It would be like the past ten years didn't mean anything.”

She shakes her head. “It’d mean I protected them until I couldn't, until I decided that I was more important than they are. And that's ok, maybe, if I decide I’ve had enough, decide I don’t owe them anymore.”

He nods, tries to give her an encouraging smile. “You don't owe anyone anything.”

“I owe you,” she tells him fiercely. “I _want_ to owe you.”

Frank doesn't say anything, just places a kiss against he temple, softly, joins their hands together again. He wants to tell her that he loves her, that she’s brave and brilliant and kind and beautiful, that he doesn't think he could do what she’s done, that he’ll support her no matter what she decides. He wants her to know that no matter what she does, now or ever, he’s always gonna support her, wants to tell that he’s ride or die so that he can make her laugh, roll her eyes at him.

“How could I have let this go on for ten years?” she asks, voice small. “How could I be such an idiot?”

“You’re not an idiot,” he assures her. “But you wanted to believe the best about him; he’s your dad.”

“I wanted to have my cake and eat it too,” she says frowning, her words remaining low and dark. “I wanted him to be a good man. I wanted to believe that he’d do right, sometimes. And I think it's ok with me now that he isn't, that he won't.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding, biting softly at her lip. “I thought I needed to take him down, to make him see how angry I was. But look at Barrow; grasping at straws and turning himself into something just as bad. He thinks those postcards make sense, thinks that it’d be justified if he had to break Hector. He knows what it’d do to my brother, doesn't care. Hell, he meant it when he said he’d press me till I shattered. I don't want to be like either of them.”

“I don't want you to be like either of them,” he agrees. “What made you change your mind though? You still gave him a lead.”

Laurel frowns, begins tugging her hand away from his before she seems to think better of it, leaves them joined. Her shoulders hunch though, trying to make herself smaller, catches the look Frank flashes her and stops, lets her shoulders square again after a long, shuddering sigh. “The lead doesn't matter. Not really. My dad can slip out of it. I was going to give Barrow more, going to give him names, locations, all of that. And then Oliver texted. And helping Barrow, putting my dad away, the more I thought about it the more I realized it wouldn't do anything, wouldn't make it better. It was just like Alain all over again, might even make things worse.”

“More pointless death?” Frank prompts.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding half surprised Frank gets it, giving him a tentative little smile, glancing up at him with wide, clear eyes. “So I’d help Barrow take down my dad; what then? Would I feel any better about anything, anything he did, anything _I_ did?” she makes a move that Frank thinks was a shrug, one corner of her mouth quirks slightly. “They don't matter. The only things that matter and you and me.”

“And if either of them come after us?”

“Then we protect ourselves,” she vows, eyes flashing. “But not till then.”

“You think they will?” he asks, because he can’t not ask, can’t not know the odds.

Her shoulders hitch in something like a shrug. “Maybe. I don't know. But if they do, we’ll do what we have to.”

“You’re amazing Laurel Castillo,” he tells her. “Brave and brilliant and I’m completely in love with you.”

“Because I may have just put targets on our backs from two directions?” Laurel asks, managing to sound wry and teasing even though her eyes are still hard.

He shakes his head, grins at her, tries to thaw her half a degree. “Because you figured out how to walk an impossible line, gave Barrow just enough to leave you alone without anyone knowing you did. Because you’re willing to choose yourself, choose to be happy. Because you're willing to do the hard, terrible tasks, even when you’re afraid or angry.”

“I wish I wasn't,” Laurel says. “Afraid, or angry. I wish I didn't care.”

“I’m angry and scared too,” he admits, because yeah, he’s completely terrified that somehow this will all backfire, will come back on Laurel and she’ll get shot or charged or drawn further into her father’s battles, further into the strange quagmire with Agent Barrow. And he’s angry, angry she’s been caught in the middle, in the crossfire, left to defend her father and protect her brother and fend off the attention of the federal government and try to honor her own sense of morals and justice. “But we’ll get past that too, together.”

“You sure you still want to throw in with me though?” she asks, thumb going to her teeth, nervous and worried. “Even with all this you still want to be a team?”

“Always,” he tells her. “Even if you sell out the cartel and piss off the Feds, I’m gonna have your back. Anyone comes after you, they come after me too, no matter what.”

“We’re a regular Bonnie and Clyde, you and me.”

“I’m Mr. Ride or Die, you know that,” Frank quips, breath catching as he sees Laurel grin wryly, roll her eyes at him. “But I’m hoping we don't go out like Bonnie and Clyde.”

Laurel laughs lightly. “True. I want to live to be a nursing home gangster. Hoarding and selling osteoporosis pills.”

“You’d have more luck with counterfeit Viagra,” he says, knocking his shoulder lightly into hers as he flashes a lopsided grin.

She rolls her eyes. “Leave it to you to corner the market on ED pills.”

“Gotta go where the money’s at, babe,” he tells her.  
“If I learned anything about running drugs, and believe me, I know a lot, it's that you gotta diversify; _that's_ where the money’s at,” she says with a teasing smile. “Can’t put all your eggs in the Viagra basket.”

He shakes his head wryly. “Well you can be the brains then, I’ll just be the muscle.”

“Deal,” she tells him, kisses his cheek lightly to seal it.

“Hey,” he asks. “Do you need more coffee after this?”

Laurel shakes her head, eyes sliding to her knees. “Honestly, I couldn't tell you what I want right now. Maybe to go to sleep and wake up back in Philly.”

He laughs sharply, thinks better of it, the sound dying on his tongue. “We could do that,” he suggests. “Sleep the rest of the afternoon, flee down to Miami tonight.”

She shakes her head. “Can't look suspicious.”

Frank hums his agreement. “Ok, we’ll figure it out. But first I need real food. They serve anything besides pastries here?”

“Sorry, no,” she tells him. “I just wanted foot traffic and noise when I set up the meet, wasn’t really thinking about food.”

“Then I’m buying a dozen danishes to go.”

She makes a sound that Frank decides must be an attempt at a laugh. “Relax. There’s a really good breakfast place down the block. It's mostly Cuban, but you’ll get your eggs and bacon.”

“I would tell you that's the best decision you’ve made all day, but it’d be a lie.”

She laughs again, and he can tell it's a real laugh this time, light and pleased. “Wait till you’ve tasted the tostadas, then get back to me.”

Laurel pushes back in her chair, stands. Frank follows, clasping her hand in his. They’ve just gotten to the door leading back into the café when it swings open and David, Jorge’s aggressive henchman, strides out, arms thrust into the pockets of a heavy, battered leather jacket. He's not even bothering with pretext, doesn't even have a coffee or a scone clutched in his hands, just bursts through the door to the patio, tense and glowering.

Laurel freezes and he feels her fingers tighten around his, feels the arc of terror that courses through her, her body stiffening suddenly, rigid and tense and he can feel, too, the sudden shift in her attention, the abrupt way her eyes, her mind, turn fully to David, to the danger she knows he brings, like a spotlight coming to bear. Frank thinks a car could crash and burst into flames out on the street and Laurel would still be staring, hard eyed and wary, at David.

“Laurel,” David says, speaking first, his eyes narrowed and voice clipped. “Frank.”

“David,” she replies, her voice soft but not betraying anything like fear, only a slow caution, confusion.

Frank gives his own nod in David’s direction, stiff jawed and curt. He wants as little to do with the man as possible, thinks that's the only smart decision. He just hopes Laurel agrees, will slip past him and out to the car before David can start to dig, start to piece together why they were here in the first place.

So Frank tugs on her wrist gently, just a slight increase in pressure against the tendons of her forearm, urges Laurel back, beside him where he can protect her if he needs to, step in front of her. She complies, takes a quick step into Frank, gives him a quick glance, a quick smile. Whatever David’s witnessed, Frank knows Laurel thinks she can control the situation, diffuse the danger. He’s slightly less sure, but Laurel has been able to walk dangerous lines before, walk through the minefield and emerge unscathed so he allows her to take the lead.

“Didn't know that getting coffee with Feds was something your dad’d approve of,” David says casually, giving Laurel a strange little smirking look. He looks like a cat who’s caught a bug under its paw; pleased, almost too pleased, ready to prolong the kill with torture.

“That what it looked like to you?” Laurel asks, voice cold. “Cause I can't help assholes coming up to me and asking stupid questions.”

David ignores the jab, lips quirking into something that could be a smile. “That's not what it looked like to me. To me it looked like you two were making a deal.”

Laurel shrugs, drops Frank’s hand and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don't care what it looked like to you. I’m telling you what it was, David. And you can tell my dad whatever you want, but I’m gonna tell him the truth.”

“Ok,” he agrees, giving Laurel that strange little smile again, mocking and flat and cruel. “Let's do that. Talk to your old man about what I saw.”

“Ok,” she says, shrugging again, sculpting her tone into something calm, something emotionless. “He knows Barrow sent someone after me already this weekend; it’s not gonna surprise him much Barrow made a go of it himself.”

“It's gonna surprise him how chummy you two were getting,” David points out, frowning now, brows pulling together. “We don't fucking talk to cops, Laurel. And you were about as talkative as I've ever seen you.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, scoffs, going for derisive now, every inch the haughty rich girl talking down to her father’s employee. “I can talk to him long enough to tell him to fuck off, can't I?”

David raises his eyebrows but continues to frown darkly at Laurel. “Sure,” he tells her with a sneer. “Sure you can. But you weren’t. I know what a fuck off looks like and that wasn't it.”

“We were in public,” Laurel points out, tone suddenly sounding bored, exasperated. “I couldn't exactly throw a punch and expect that it wouldn't draw a lot of unwanted attention. And wind myself in lockup. Which puts eyes on my dad.”

“You were making a fucking deal with a fucking Fed,” David accuses, voice harsh, rasping, the full force of his anger now coming to bear on Laurel. “You and your piece of shit boyfriend here.”

“Frank’s got nothing to do with anything,” Laurel snaps.

“Yeah,” David growls. “He did. You two called that Fed up, let him know the old man’s plans for him. That's what I think went down. Sold Jorge out like a bitch.”

Frank watches Laurel’s hands ball into fists, watches her jaw clench, hard and tight. When she speaks her voice is a command and he’s suddenly left understanding Jorge’s fierce desire for his daughter to follow after him, why he thinks she could run his empire to new heights. “You’re an idiot, and you go ahead and tell my dad whatever you want. Because nothing about it is true. But don't you say one more goddamn thing about Frank or you and I really _will_ have a problem.”

He laughs and Frank’s reminded again of David’s words the night before, about how he thinks Laurel is weak, too emotional; how he treated her with casual contempt and ignored her intelligence, her cunning, her quiet danger, thinking of her only as his boss’ damaged child. “You best believe I’m going to speak with your old man. And you better run. You better run straight to your Fed because he’s the only one that’s gonna protect you from him.”

“He’s not my Fed,” Laurel says, edge going out of her voice but Frank can see her eyes flash. “And I’m not going anywhere. I have no need to.”

David shrugs, smiles a little too broadly until it's clear just how much he relishes the thought of Laurel and Jorge in conflict, or Laurel having to defend herself to her dad, beg for his mercy. “That’s fine. We’ll leave it up to the boss to sort it out. Cause he’s definitely gonna be interested in what I have to say.”

“He’ll laugh in your face and tell you you're paranoid,” Laurel says nonchalantly, suddenly stepping forward, brushing past David as she yanks the door open, her body passing so close to his David has to step back. Frank wonders at that, wonders at the subtle show of power in that quick confrontation; forcing David to either step back or let their bodies collide. He wonders if David even realized what occurred, what she had done. He wonders if Laurel thinks this means she’s won, wonders what it means for David’s intentions, if anything. “Do what you gotta do David, but you have no idea what you're talking about. My dad’s gonna know that.”

“Your dad may be able to forget the things you said to him, the things you did,” David tells her. “But I haven't. And I’m gonna remind him.”

“So do it then,” she urges, practically daring him, rolling her eyes as she slips through the door, spine still straight and stiff and showing none of the fear, none of the apprehension Frank thinks she ought to, shows no indication the threat has any impact, that she cares one way or the other what David has to tell her father. “Put up or shut up.”

Frank doesn't know how she’s doing it, can act so unconcerned about David, about his threat. Jorge already suspects Laurel will sell him out, will align herself with Barrow against him and his interests, _was_ planning on doing that until Oliver’s texts.

And her father’s already hinted as what is awaiting Laurel if she tries to go against him, puts any of his interests at risk, hinted that he’s willing to go so far as to kill her even before David comes to him with this new information. Frank’s fucking terrified, though he tries not to show it, practically shaking in fear because meeting with Barrow was a big enough goddamn risk and now it's blowing up in their faces and Laurel’s going to suffer for it, for her ridiculous insistence that she had to get free of her father, set things right. 

And he has no idea how Laurel isn’t, isn't petrified, can't see any of her usual tells, the usual indications of what she’s thinking or feeling. But there’s nothing in her voice, nothing in her eyes or her body that speaks to him of fear; just anger, defiance.

Frank begins to slip out after Laurel, but David reaches out, grasps Frank’s forearm as he goes. “It was good advice Frank, and you should take it” David tells him, voice low and dangerous, nearing a snarl. “You both better run. It’s the only thing that's gonna save either of you when I get to Jorge.”

Frank glares at David, tries to keep his voice even, keep the growl from his voice as he pulls his arm from the other man's grasp. “There’s no need to run,” Frank lies. “She was telling you the damn truth.”

Laurel’s waiting for him outside at the car, slumped against the side of Hector’s car, arms across her chest and her chin tucked close to her body.

“What’re we gonna do?” he asks her when he’s close enough to keep his voice low, barely more than a whisper.

“Nothing,” Laurel shrugs, not even bothering to glance up. “Let him talk.”

“And if your dad listens to that talk?” Frank prompts, trying to swallow the fear that still ripples through him.

“The more I react, the more he’ll think David might be onto something,” Laurel says, something stiff and tight in her voice, like she’s finally feeling, trying to suppress the fear she didn't allow herself to react to inside the café. “If I run, if I act like I’m guilty, he’ll know I am.”

“And if he thinks that anyway? That you’re guilty?”

“You know what happens,” Laurel says sharply, her chin rising in something like defiance, meeting his eyes with her own, refusing to turn away.

“I want you to tell me,” he insists.

“Then he eliminates me as a threat,” she says, voice flat, but her eyes remain on his, steel and fire in her eyes. “He kills me, most likely. Maybe you, to teach me a lesson.”

“So what’re we gonna do?” Frank asks again, taking her elbows in his hands, tugging her crossed arms away from her chest, tugging her closer until he can wrap his arms around her body.

“Nothing,” Laurel tells him, stepping back an inch so that she can look Frank in the eyes, hard and unblinking. “We’re gonna do nothing and then when I can, when the time’s right, I’ll tell him I’m done. Reassure him that walking away means I won't say anything. To anyone.”

“And he’s gonna believe that?”

She shrugs, tries to shrug off his arms, shrug out of his embrace. But then after a moment she sighs, and her body relaxes, curves into his, that last remnants of fight going out of it. “I don't know,” she confesses, voice soft. “But it's the only chance I have of getting out. So I've gotta take it.”

Frank nods, smooths his hand through her hair, tucks the wild strands behind her ears. “What can I do?” he asks. “What can I do to get us out?”

“Act like nothing’s wrong,” Laurel urges vehemently. “Because nothing is. We didn't do anything, I didn't sell him out.”

“And David?”

Laurel chuckles darkly. “David’s got suspicions, that’s all. It's our job to make sure that’s all he gets.”

“Right,” Frank breathes. “Easy.”

Laurel nods fiercely, ignores the sarcasm in his voice. “It is. Don't think about it, ok. You and me are gonna get breakfast and we’re gonna forget about all this. And my dad’ll ask some questions and we’ll get through them, just like we’ve already done. That's the plan.”

“That's the plan,” he echoes. 

“But first we’re gonna get more coffee and tostadas and about six pounds of bacon. And we’re gonna be fine.”

She leans forward, leans her forehead against his and sighs, deep. Frank smiles, tightly, but a smile all the same. He can feel the tension in her bones, but feels it slipping from her, like sloughing off quick drops of water. He knows she’s decided, found certainty from somewhere, and that whatever happens, good or bad, she’s picked her course. It's his job to follow, to remain at her heels, to protect her when the time comes. That's his job and one he refuses to fail at. He’ll follow her through hell if he has to. Frank presses his lips, softly, against hers, hand going to her cheek and he can feel the muscles pull tight as she smiles.

“Tell me again,” he whispers.

“We’re gonna be fine Frank,” she assures him, conviction filling her words and Frank’d honestly be lying if he said that he wasn't tempted to believe her.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for a nice little interlude before things head toward the big confrontation and start to get dark again...

Frank is practically counting down the hours till their flight home, realizes how pathetic that is, but keeps up with it anyway. He hasn't checked the time in a while, but he figures they’re easily under the twenty four hour mark now, officially in the home stretch. He doesn't think he can breathe a sigh of relief yet; figures they still have to get through the rest of the afternoon, and dinner, and whatever horrible fights inevitably erupt after dinner, have to convince Hector to get them to the airport, too.

But, they’re almost there, he thinks, and they’ve gotten through the worst of it. He's sure they have, despite the catch in his stomach when he thinks about how much worse it could be, how much time they still have for things to go horrible. And, well, Laurel’s finally decided to break out one of the promised bikinis, so, he thinks, life is definitely not all bad. No, all things considered, it's actually pretty great.

The bikini is black, with grey and blue and pink pinstripes, and tiny; thin strips of fabric held together with thinner strings. He wants to reach over, pull one of the strings, maybe all of them. But he resists, stills his itching hands, because her niece and nephews are a couple feet away, busy trying to bury Hector in the sand.

Somehow, when they got back to the house after food they got roped into babysitting duty by Vanessa, who announced that she and her mother were going to lunch and shopping and Laurel needed to help Hector keep the kids alive. And Laurel, naturally, agreed. So here they are, sitting on the sand just beyond the house, watching the kids dig a large hole designed for Hector, bickering over whether they’ve finally made it deep enough that their uncle can get in it.

Laurel glances over at him, rolls her eyes, a wide grin on her face. Here, with only Vanessa’s kids and Hector, he thinks she’s convinced herself she can relax, let her sharp edges smooth, her guard dropping just slightly; still on watch but at ease, finally.

He thinks that now, having come to a decision, having staked her position, she’s lighter, happier. He thinks he can see it in her, in the lines of her body, in the movement of her limbs, her words, her eyes; he thinks that a shadow has lifted off her, or a weight, or the heavy hand of fear. Frank figures that good or bad, she’s decided, settled the matter in her mind, and will live with the consequences, whatever they may be. 

“I’ve found the one good thing about stitches,” she says, watching Eric and Leo deepen the hole around Hector’s feet, digging wide trenches with their hands. She leans back on the blanket they’ve spread over the sand, back on her elbows, her back bowing and limbs stretching taut so that he can barely function for staring at her.

“What’s that?” he asks when he can form words again.

“I can use it as an excuse to avoid being the one getting buried,” Laurel tells him, grimacing as Marco dumps a bucket of sand on Hector’s chest.

“Pretty weak excuse babe,” he tells her with a smirk. “Slap a bag over your hand, or tell them to not to bury that arm.”

She shrugs. “Might be, but luckily it's just Hector, and he’s not gonna call me out on it.”

Frank chuckles slightly, ignores the lump in his throat, the hard pit in his stomach when he thinks about Hector, thinks about her injured hand. Instead, he lies back against the beach towel and the warm sand below, stares up at the clear, cloudless blue of the sky, closes his eyes and sees nothing but an orange so bright and deep it's black. He breathes slow, breathes in the sea air, crisp and tangy with salt, exhales through his nose to quiet the still churning panic. “You know I’m gonna force you in the water though,” he tells her when he can feel his heart no longer stuttering with fear, with anger. “I didn't come all the way to Florida to not go to the beach.”

“We’re at the beach right now,” she points out, rolling her eyes.

He gives her a look, hands going to pillow behind his head. “You know what I mean.”

Laurel grins. “It’ll probably be pretty cold though,” she warns.

“Not as cold as in Philly.”

“That’s true,” Laurel admits, still grinning wryly at him. “And you’re weird about the cold.”

“ _You’re_ weird about the cold,” he teases. “You’ve got some thin Florida blood.”

“You hear that Hec?” she calls over to her brother, now covered in a thin layer of sand up to his neck. “He said I have thin Florida blood cause I don't want to go in the water.”

Hector laughs, disrupting the low mounds of sand, little avalanches rolling off his body. “At least he didn't get weird and racist.”

Eric and Luna give Hector twin glares, dropping to their knees to pile sand back on their uncle’s body, patting the heaping mounds down into hard packs.

Laurel hums. “That's true. One of my roommates freshman year told me I was so cold all the time cause I was Latina.”

Frank gives her a skeptical look and she just shrugs.

Hector laughs again. “Silly racist cow,” he mutters.

“Right, couldn't have been because winter in Rhode Island is a frigid hellscape. Had to be a racial thing.”

“It's always a race thing with basic bitches,” Hector tells her, though he does look a little guilty when Laurel glares at him, pointed glance reminding him about his niece and nephews.

“Her dad was a Boston city councilman or something,” Laurel tells her brother. “She wasn't basic.”

“You can be rich and basic,” Hector points out. “Didn't high school teach you anything?”

Laurel chuckles, seems to concede his point. “But how bad’s the water? You went surfing yesterday, yeah?”

“Not too bad,” Hector tells her. “But I did have a wetsuit.”

“See,” Laurel says with a pointed glance at Frank. “It's cold.”

He glances over at Hector, sees him shake his head and roll his eyes at his sister goodnaturedly.

“I’m still gonna go in,” he assures her. “Like I said, we're in Florida and you didn't even take me to Disney, or to see an alligator.”

“Doesn't Carl own an alligator?” Hector interjects. “Take Frank over there.”

“An alligator?” Marco asks excitedly, as he approaches with a bucket full of water, glancing around so that the over-full bucket sloshes heavy at his feet. “Where?”

“Not here, bud, sorry,” Hector assures him, rolling his eyes at Frank and Laurel at Marco’s disappointed frown. “I just know someone who has one.”

“Carl’s one of my dad’s people,” Laurel explains before turning back to her brother. “He and I don't really see eye to eye, Hec, so I don't think he’d welcome a visit.”

“Right,” Hector says slowly, as though he’s only just remembering the details of whatever feud exists between Laurel and whoever Carl is, deep frown spreading over his face. “He was the one that got pinched on a warrant for unpaid tickets or something, left you someplace south of Marathon with six keys and twenty bucks.”

“It was seven dollars,” Laurel says frigidly, mouth a tight angry line. “Seven dollars and eighty four cents.”

Hector tries a laugh, but the sound comes out a little choked and something in his teasing grin slips. “Lucky you had a bunch of cocaine though, right?”

“Coke which I couldn't sell because at the time, I really liked the idea of not getting shot by dad,” she glances over at Frank, her hand sliding back along the blanket until it wraps around his bicep, feels her fingers tighten against his skin. Somehow, he thinks, she can sense his discomfort, his unease, or she just instinctively knows that talk of her family and their various illegal activities freaks him the hell out.

He can handle murder, he can handle extortion and bribery and threats, but not when it's Laurel, not when she’s involved and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He thinks that she’s his weak spot, his Achilles heel, he can’t stomach the idea of her involved in drug running, in the plots and deceptions and casual violence that seems to surround her father and her family. The little he knows about Laurel’s brief involvement in her father's empire; her admission of what went on with Nestor Serrano, her presence during at least one murder, and her muleing from the Keys, it all makes his breath catch, makes his whole body go cold and numb, makes his heart beat loud and fast in his ears. It doesn't matter in the least that he knows she’s made it through, made it out safe; it still terrifies him. And he thinks Laurel can sense that, feel his fear and discomfort and the pounding need to protect her.

And so she takes arm, lets him feel the quick rapid beats of her pulse against his skin, reminds him that she’s ok and she’s safe and she’s his, even though his stomach feels like it's in his throat when he thinks about what it really meant to have a bunch of cocaine in south Florida and no way to get it anywhere.

“You made it out with a little ingenuity though,” Hector teases, arm shooting up from the sand to grab at Leo’s ankle as the boy tries to dump another bucket of sand on his legs, leaves him shrieking and darting away from his uncle.

“I sold my shoes, Hector,” Laurel tells him, though Frank thinks he hears a little note of laughter creeping into her voice, even though he can barely understand how that’s possible, how she’s not still raging and bitter. “And hitchhiked on a chicken truck.”

“Builds character?” he offers with a little shrug.

“Oh yeah?” she challenges, eyes flashing. “Did it build character when dad made me do the same trip two weeks later with fifteen keys and zero dollars because I was two hours late to the drop-off and he wanted to teach me a lesson?”

“You were seven minutes early the second time if I remember correctly,” Hector says grinning wide and proud.

“I was, but not because of fucking character.”

He laughs. “Sometimes I’m really glad I was the disappointment. I don't think he ever even asked me to mail a letter.”

“I don't really need to see an alligator, babe,” Frank interjects, trying desperately to get Laurel and Hector off this damn subject. “I’m not a fan of animals that can crush me like a toothpick.”

“Really?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “Because I think there’s some weird run-down alligator farm somewhere between here and Jupiter. Might be creepy and fun.”

“I think I went there in high school once,” Hector muses. “It was legitimately terrifying, and I don't even think I was that stoned.”

Laurel glances at Frank, grins so wide he can see her eye teeth. “Sounds awesome right?”

“I can’t tell whether your brother’s endorsing the place or not,” Frank tells her.

“Didn't lose a hand, so two unsevered thumbs up,” Hector says with a shrug, his smile matching Laurel’s.

“You Floridians have really strange ideas of fun too.”

“Not a Florida thing,” Laurel tells him with a little shake of her head, still grinning. “Its that, compared to our dad, an alligator’s pretty much a puppy.”

Hector nods. “A tiny fluffy puppy,” he adds.

Frank swallows hard. It's a strange vertiginous feeling, finding Laurel now suddenly so open with him, no longer hiding her past, her fears, the truth, really, behind silence and stiff smiles, behind deflection and Frank’s own cowardice. He feels like he’s walking through deep, dark water, unsure of where the bottom is, the path ahead of him strange and uncertain. He can't decide whether he should hate or love that all the secrets and the walls between them have come down, that Laurel trusts him to speak of things she would have hidden away, buried deep, just a week ago.

He wishes he didn't know, for all his thoughts otherwise, he didn't actually want to know just how deep the hurt and grief and fear went in Laurel, but now that he does, now that he knows the truth, knows the things she was scared to show him, now they’ve been dragged forcibly into the light, well, he doesn't know how he ever could have believed he could live without not knowing. He wishes it wasn't this way, wishes that there wasn’t anything for him to know, no long-buried pain and anger and violence, and yet, it's there, it exists, and Frank knows that if he loves Laurel, he has to love the bad parts as well as the good ones, needs to know all the horrible things that she tries her best to forget, to bury and smother. 

And yet, even so, it's strange and jarring and a little terrifying to hear Laurel speak so casually about things she would have hidden away and buried down deep, not even willing to acknowledge in her own mind for fear that Frank will see the truth on her face, will read it in her body. He loves that she trusts him now, trusts him to speak of these things, even though he can tell it pains her, even though it's clear they both wish that it was all fiction or a dream, that it was simple and easy and the worst thing she had to tell him was that once she’d cheated on her Calc final, or that yeah, her mom may drink a little too much.

“Speaking of,” he asks, running a hand through his beard, trying to make a joke since that's clearly where Laurel and Hector’s minds are going, trying to smooth the grimace from his face. “Do Floridians really use alligators to dispose of bodies?”

They both laugh, rolls their eyes. “Sadly no,” Laurel admits. “That's a harmful stereotype.”

Hector nods as best he can around the pile of sand on his chest. “We have woodchippers down here too. And everyone knows that it's best to dump your bodies out at sea.”

“You got that from _Dexter_ ,” Laurel tells her brother sarcastically.

“Doesn’t mean it's not true,” he says, exposed feet hitching slightly, the only part of him uncovered by sand.

She shrugs. “Fair point.”

Luna comes over then, covered in a fine layer of sand from head to toe, plops down at Laurel’s feet. Laurel sits forward and wraps her niece in her arms, hands stroking through her hair, dislodging the worst of the clumps of sand. Luna leans back against her aunt, brushes the sand from her arms, her knees.

“What happened to you Lu?” Laurel asks.

“I was digging too hard,” Luna says, looking somewhat sheepish.

Laurel chuckles, cards her hands through Laurel’s hair, separating the strands. “ _Tio’s_ not going anywhere, you can relax a bit.”

Luna looks skeptical. “We’re trying to make him vanish.”

“Looks like you’re doing a pretty good job of it, yeah?” Laurel asks rhetorically, glancing over at the mound of sand now covering everything but Hector’s face.

She nods. 

“And,” Laurel says, voice dropping low. “I’ll stop him if he tries to get up, don't worry.” 

She parts Luna’s hair down the middle, separates the right side into three separate strands, beginning to braid her niece’s hair into pigtails. “Frank?” she asks, a little teasing grin slipping onto her face. “You wanna help?”

He gives her a look, tries not to appear too derisive, but does roll his eyes with a little scoff. “Really babe?”

“Ava or Gabby never made you braid their hair?” she asks, referring to his two little nieces who 100% have him wrapped around their fingers.

“You ever see me braid hair?” he asks sarcastically. “I play princesses, I’ll have tea parties, hell, I’ll even let the girls paint my nails. But Luna, trust me, tell Tia Laurel that she should braid you hair and leave me out of it.”

She laughs, goes back to braiding. Frank wonders if she will miss this, these little moments of peace, of simplicity with her family, wonders if she will regret leaving Luna and her nephews behind, let them grow up and grow old without her, because that, Frank knows, is what she must do if she continues with her decision to cut herself off from her family, excise them like a cancer. He thinks that despite herself, despite all her best intentions and efforts, Laurel loves her family, even as she hates them. He suspects that, were more of her interactions with her family like this, easy and light, she’d have a different view of things, wouldn't be able to walk away quite so easily. And he suspects that she will truly miss these far-between moments when she no longer has to be on edge, on guard, can let the fight go out of her and just enjoy her sister’s children.

“Someday I’m going to teach you to braid hair,” she promises him, eyes sparkling. “Just you wait.”

He knows that if, someday, they have kids, have a daughter, he will learn to braid hair, will do anything that Laurel and this imaginary child ask of him, probably without even token complaint. But for now he can affect a scowl, gruffness, make it clear he isn't interested in braiding.

“I’d be worried, Frank,” Hector calls over, lifting his head as best he can from the deep hole he’s been buried in. “Laurel forced Nessa to braid her hair all the time when she was little. She was a persistent little thing.”

Laurel scoffs. “She liked it, secretly,” she tells him. She leans down to Luna, whispers something in her ear and tickles her sides lightly before beginning to braid the left side of her hair. “It kept me quiet.”

Hector laughs, wide and loud. “I don't think you could've been any quieter as a kid. You know half my friends thought you were mute you were so silent.”

She chuckles lightly. “I don't remember that, but I remember dad bribing me with candy and trips to the racetrack if I talked.”

“Yeah,” Hector tells her. “The school thought there was something wrong with you. Mom wanted to take you to some shrink. Dad, of course, used economics.”

Laurel shrugs, smiles even though Frank can tell its against her better judgement, can see the way she tries to smother it, tries to keep her guard up when it comes to her father, not allow any of the good memories of him to tempt her away from her decision. “He knew where my weaknesses were, even then. Every hundred words got a candy bar. Talking to Elena counted double.”

“Did she know that you think?” Hector asks, wicked look in his eyes.

Laurel shakes her head, looks guilty for half a second, bites her lip to keep from smiling. “No way. If she had I think she’d’ve paid me not to.”

“ _Tia,_ ” Luna pipes up then as Laurel finishes the last of the pigtail. “Can we go in the water?”

Laurel glances at her brother, buried deep and unmoving, then at Frank, inclines her head slightly. “Sure,” she tells the little girl once Frank raises his eyebrows, gives a little shrug to show his assent. “But you gotta convince at least one of your brothers. I don't think your uncle can handle all three of them, do you?”

Luna shakes her head, little pigtails swinging back and forth, nearly whipping Laurel’s face.

“Go get the boys while I make sure I don't get my stitches wet, ok?”

Luna nods, scrambles to her feat and heads towards Marco, who’s peering intently at a large chunk of seaweed at the shoreline, kicking at it with his toes as the waves lap at his ankles. Luna ignores Eric and Leo who are now trying to build another, similar, mound of sand near Hector.

“Looks like you’ll get your wish to get me in the water,” Laurel tells him. “Unless you want to hang with Hector.”

Frank chuckles, glances at her brother. “I like him well enough, but I’ll stick with you.”

She laughs, glances again at Hector. “Sorry Hec, guess you’re gonna have to stay buried for a bit. Hopefully the boys behave.”

She grabs a plastic bag, hands Frank a roll of duct tape they pilfered from the kitchen and lets him wrap the bag around her hand, secure it with the tape so her hand will stay dry. Standing, she holds a hand out to Frank, hauls him to his feet. She strides ahead of him, down to the water, the low winter sun glancing warm and heavy off her back, her dark shining hair. 

He wants to glide his hands down her sides, scrape his thumb across the edges of her bikini top, wants to run his teeth across the wide expanse of her collarbone until she gasps. Instead he picks up his pace to match hers, meets her at the waterline and slides his palm across the warm span of her back then takes her hand, threads his fingers through hers.

“Let's make sure we give your sister back the same number of kids as she left us with,” he says low in her ear, nodding ahead to where Marco is already trying to dunk Luna beneath the waves.

“She’s got four,” Laurel tells him with a little laugh. “She won't miss one. Might even thank us.”

He just grins and follows her into the water.


	50. Chapter 50

The sun is beginning to sink low in the sky, slanting hard and hot as it arcs towards the horizon, when Elena and Vanessa emerge from the house again. Vanessa is hauling two beach chairs along the sand, her mother carrying a large glass of something clear and full of ice. Frank gives better than even odds that it's not water.

The kids are all out of the water, slumped boneless and exhausted on the large beach towel, drying in the enveloping Florida heat, only Leo lifting his head to regard the approach of his mother and grandmother, blinking owlishly at the two of them before letting his head flop back agains the beach towel.

Frank’s lying on the edge of the towel, Laurel’s head cushioned by his chest, her hair fanning out against his neck, tickling his chin. Her breaths come low and even and he thinks she too, may be falling asleep, though she continues to trace idle patterns against his palm with her fingers, sleepily strokes up to his wrist and down to the tips of his fingers.

Vanessa sets up the two chairs along the sand next to the towel and settles into one, hand going to Eric’s ankle, tickling the soft skin there.

“You have fun?” Laurel asks as Elena approaches, barely moving until her mother’s body casts a shadow over her, blocks the light slanting onto her face. Frank sees her eyes open, squint against the harsh afternoon light, and she moves her hand to shield her face watching her mother’s expression with something he decides is caution.

Vanessa shrugs. “Sales weren't all that great.”

“Bummer,” Laurel says, though doesn't appear to be terribly sincere about it.

“Where’s Hec?” he hears Vanessa ask.

Frank cracks an eye open, turns his head to see the heaping mound of sand where Hector was buried. It's just a pit now, Hector having vanished somewhere while no one was paying attention.

“He must’ve gone inside,” Laurel says, though Frank’s certain she hasn't moved, hasn’t even glanced towards where he was sitting.

Vanessa makes a noise like a snort. “Figures.”

Laurel raises a limp hand, makes a vague gesture like she’s waving away smoke. “You really expected him to stick around through hours of babysitting?”

“I guess not,” Vanessa hums. “But you’re basically the only person he likes, so I thought he might tough it out.”

“He doesn't like me _that_ much,” Laurel tells her sarcastically, head lolling against Frank's chest to look over at her sister. “He just hates conflict. You fight with him too much so he flees when I’m around and he doesn't have to argue.”

“Not that I can blame him. But for someone that hates conflict he sure starts a lot of them,” Vanessa looks a little skeptical though, squints over at her sister. “And for someone that wants to be a lawyer, you sure try to avoid them.”

Laurel sits up, draws her legs to her chest, wraps her arms around them and watches her sister. Frank follows her, sitting up and leaning back to rest on his elbows. She leans back then, leans into Frank’s chest, rests her body against his, right hand sliding against his bare knee, then higher to his thigh.

Laurel laughs sharply. “Getting paid to fight is completely different.”

“The difference between a pro boxer and a street brawler,” Frank quips, as both Laurel and Vanessa snort, roll their eyes in jarringly identical gestures.

He tries to tell himself that these little reminders that they’re related shouldn't be quite so surprising, quite so hard for him to wrap his brain around, but they are. To Frank’s mind, Laurel seems so different from her siblings, so completely distinct and separate that when he’s reminded that she’s related to Hector or Vanessa or even Adrian, reminded that they share DNA, shared a childhood, it continues to surprise him. He wonders if it's because he’s known her so long, so well, as an individual, a distinct entity, while he’s known so little about her family, that he can’t help but think that even the gestures, the tics, the strange inherited or shared similarities are ones he has filed away in his brain as purely, wholly Laurel’s; finds them strange and alien to see on another person’s body, face, hands, like seeing Laurel’s eyes suddenly peering at him out of another person’s body.

“That's me,” Laurel grins. “The Muhammad Ali of the Philly PD’s office.”

“Can I put that on your business cards?” he asks, fingers tripping against her side, tickling the sensitive skin there.

“Totally,” she tells him, squirming against his hand. “I’m sure Joe the PD will approve.”

“Clients’ll probably dig it,” Vanessa adds with a little twist of her lips that again reminds Frank of Laurel at her most wry. “I should tell Brian to add it to his. Brian Ruiz; the Muhammad Ali of the Houston General ER. Doctors are all about twelve years old, so he’ll love it.”

“You saying I’m twelve?” Laurel asks.

“That was when I went off to college, so yeah, I still think of you as about twelve.”

Laurel’s brow furrows a little. “Must be weird to be an older sibling.”

Vanessa chuckles lightly. “It is a little strange I guess,” she admits. “Frank? Thoughts?”

“All my siblings stuck around Philly, so I see them all the time; it's impossible to think of them as being twelve,” he says with a little shrug. “Though they were probably easier to deal with then.”

“Yeah,” Vanessa says with a teasing grin at her sister. “Laurel too.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “I was awesome at twelve,” pauses and corrects herself with a wry little grin. “I’m awesome now too.”

“Where did you two go earlier?” Elena asks, perched gently on the second beach chair, settling her drink carefully back in a little divot of sand.

“Breakfast,” Laurel says shortly. “I wanted to take Frank to Blue House, get him some tostadas.”

Vanessa rolls her eyes, scoffs. “Rosalie’s is better. And closer.”

Laurel shrugs, and Frank feels her body shift closer to his, right hand tightening against his knee. “We went to Blue House.”

“I liked it,” Frank interjects, before Vanessa can argue further about the merits of Rosalie’s. “The café con leche was the best I’ve had.”

Laurel sends her elbow lightly into his ribs, laughs. “What do you know about café con leche, gringo?” she asks, grinning into his chest.

“Italians pretty much invented coffee,” he assures her wryly.

Laurel rolls her eyes. “That’s not remotely true.”

He shrugs, grins lopsidedly, kisses the side of her neck when he thinks her sister isn't watching. “Well, we perfected then.”

“And I bet you wanted a little break from these four, huh?” Vanessa asks, nodding at the pile of tangled limbs that are her children. “Sorry I’ve dumped them on you so much this weekend.”

Laurel lifts her head, raises her eyes to her sister. “It's ok, Ness,” she says after a long moment, giving her a reassuring smile. “You need a vacation sometimes too. Plus, I see your kids once a year if I’m lucky, gotta get my fill of them while I can.”

Vanessa chuckles. “But four days and you’re done with them, huh?”

“You said it, not me,” she says grinning, though there’s something wistful, sad in her words, as though she knows this will probably be the last time she sees Vanessa’s kids, knows she’s saying goodbye.

“Come out to Texas sometime, L,” Vanessa says. “When school’s finished, or the bar. Whenever, ok?”

Laurel nods, blinks hard and Frank can see the tightness in her throat. He can certainly sense the lie, suspects Vanessa can too. He thinks it’d be a lie even if she wasn't planning to turn on her father. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I mean it,” her sister says giving Laurel a long look, like she hears something in her sister that gives her pause, worries at the catch in Laurel’s throat. “Come visit me.”

“Ness,” Laurel begins.

“L,” Vanessa cuts her off, and there’s an edge of pleading, of begging in her voice, like this isn't the first time she’s reached out to Laurel, been rejected, been put off, like she expects the answer will be no because she’s heard it all before, like this is a well-tread path leading to an excuse or silence.

That sounds about right, Frank thinks because Laurel is almost preternaturally gifted at keeping people at arms length when she fears they have the power to hurt her. And her family, he knows, can hurt her worse than just about anyone, _has_ hurt her worse than anyone. “I want to see you sometime,” Vanessa continues. “And it's hard to travel with four kids. So please, come down sometime. Come see us. The kids miss you and I miss you.”

“Laurel, darling,” her mother cuts in before Laurel or Vanessa can say more, the ice in her glass tinkling softly. “You really should come home more, see your family. You know how your father misses you.”

Laurel frowns, glances away from her mother and Frank sees her right hand tighten into a fist, watches her drive her nails into the center of her palm, into the still sore and painful flesh there. “You know I can't Elena,” she says wearily. “Flights are expensive and I have school.”

“Talk to your father,” Elena tells her. “He would certainly pay for you to come down more often.”

“Elena,” Laurel growls. “You know I’m not going to do that.”

“I wish you would stop antagonizing your father,” she says, taking a long swallow of her drink. “There's no reason to be so stubborn. You’ve really upset him this time, and he was so looking forward to having all of you home for once.”

“Mom,” Vanessa says warningly, glancing quickly and beseechingly at Laurel, urging her to stay silent. “She doesn't want dad to pay, leave her alone about it.”

“I really can't understand why,” Elena says, though Frank isn't sure whether she’s addressing Laurel or her sister. “All your father wants is to provide for his children, to make sure you’re happy and successful.”

“I want my own success,” Laurel says, shaking her head slightly in consternation, tips of her hair brushing against Frank’s chest. “Not his. Mine. That’s how he’ll make me happy.”

Elena frowns, points at Laurel with a shaky finger, still clutching her drink. “I don't think you’ve been happy a day in your life, Laurel. If you have I certainly haven't seen it.”

Laurel sighs, hand going back to Frank’s knee, thumb stroking against the thin skin there, the gesture, he thinks, designed to comfort herself more than him, the gesture repetitive and soothing. “I’m plenty happy. I like my life, a lot. Its just not the life dad wants for me, or the one you think I should have. But it's _mine_. And maybe you’d notice that if you ever bothered to talk to me.”

Elena’s frown turns into a hard scowl. “Laurel, darling, don't say things you don't mean. You’ve had no time for me since before you could walk.”

“Because I was smart enough to realize you wanted nothing more than to have me out of your hair.”

“Don't be dramatic,” Elena tells her, rolling her eyes.

“Do you know how many times you picked me up from school?” Laurel asks, voice flat but she holds Elena’s eyes, doesn't blink, doesn't flinch. “Four. Four times from first grade to senior year. When I was eight and had pneumonia, you didn't come to the hospital. Dad told me you were busy with the fundraiser for the symphony. For three days. That stuffed fox I had as a kid, Hugo? I called him Hugo cause that’s what I thought you were saying every time you handed him to me and walked away. Not ‘here you go.’ Hugo. For the longest time I thought you were naming him, not shoving a stuffed animal at me to shut me up.”

“Laurel,” he hears Vanessa say from Elena’s other side. He can’t tell whether she’s trying to silence Laurel or expressing sympathy or what.

“Are you seriously blaming me for every bad thing that happened in your childhood?” Elena asks sharply.

“Of course not. But I’m almost positive you can't remember my birthday, maybe even how old I am. I _know_ you don't know where I went to college,” Laurel tells her. “So, no, I’m not blaming you for anything. I'm just pointing out facts.”

“Of course I remember your birthday,” Elena says. “And you went to Cornell; you pulled off an Ivy, but a lesser Ivy.”

There’s a little tremor in Laurel’s jaw, a sharp intake of breath as her eyes narrow, almost as though she had been hoping to be wrong, hoping that Elena could recall even the basic details of her life. Frank wants to shake his head, wants to laugh because Laurel has to do so little to prove her point. And he wants to cry too, or yell at Elena until his voice is hoarse because goddamnit, this shows just how little her mother cares about Laurel, proves just how totally ignored she is by her mother. It proves just how completely alone she was. “I went to Brown,” she says wearily. “And in case you’re confused, it’s April 5th. My birthday’s April 5th.”

Elena’s brows pull together, confusion and consternation clear on her face. “But you were in New York, weren't you? There was a lot of snow, wherever it was,” she adds dismissively.

“Mom,” Vanessa says softly, catching Laurel’s eye, giving her quick glance that looks sympathetic, like this isn't the first time Elena has made clear what an absolutely waste of time she thinks Laurel is. “She wasn’t at Cornell. She went to Brown.”

“Rhode Island,” Laurel adds. “I was in Rhode Island. Which you would have known if you had visited even once. Or called. Or hell, paid any attention to me at all. I had Brown t-shirts and water bottles and backpacks.”

“What does it matter that I haven't memorized absurd trivia about you?”

“Trivia?” Laurel asks, her voice choked and low. “How is that trivia?”

“Laurel,” Vanessa says sharply, clearly warning her sister not to go further.

Her eyes flick to Vanessa, narrow even further, looks like she’s going to protest, going to fight, going to continue to barrel further into the conflict. But then she turns away, turns her eyes to the sand at her feet and exhales sharply, dragging her fingers through the grains and letting them slide through her fingers. “You’re right Nessa,” she sighs. “It’s not worth it.”

Frank thinks he sees Vanessa mouth something like ‘thank you’ to Laurel, sees the relieved sigh she lets out as one long, continuous breath.

“There’s basically twelve hours till I leave,” she continues. “Let’s just agree to disagree Elena, ok?”

“That’s always your strategy,” Elena tells her, mouth twisting into a sneer. “Starting a fight and then walking away so you can pretend to take the high ground.”

“I’m not starting a damn thing,” Laurel growls. “And you’re not going to goad me into finishing it. I’m done.”

“You have no fight, Laurel,”Elena adds and Frank can’t tell whether she’s trying to antagonize Laurel or accuse her or what.

“No wonder you’re such a disappointment to your father.”

“I’m sorry he thinks I’m a failure,” she says, voice tight.

“You _are_ a failure,” her mother insists. “Your father had such high hopes for you. But you’ve wasted every advantage you’ve been given, rebelled against everything he’s ever done for you to wind up with nothing.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way too,” Laurel tells her stiffly. “But I’m happy and I like my life, and you can accept that or not. I don't really care.”

“I don't understand you darling, not at all. You cavort around with this man,” she says, waving dismissively at Frank. “Who’s one step up from a petty street thug, who’s made nothing of himself, you go to one of the best law schools in the country and you take a job any idiot could do. You squander every gift you’ve been given, get nothing in return.”

And ok, that hurts a little, because he’s tried, tried real damn hard to be more than a ‘petty street thug’, tried to make something of himself even though sometimes it's hard and sometimes he’s asked to go back to that life, do things that he wishes he didn't have to do. And yeah, he figured that was probably how Laurel’s mom saw him, because he isn't rich and he doesn't have a job with status and he can’t give Laurel a huge house and a fancy car and all the things that he thinks her mom views as markers of wealth, of status, of love.

And that, he thinks, is the most fucked up part of all of this, of Laurel’s relationship with her mother; that Elena seems convinced money is the same thing as love, can’t seem to understand that not only does Laurel not believe that, but it's probably the root of the gaping gulf between Elena and her youngest child. Because Elena thinks that she’s showing her child love, affection, and Laurel’s just left questioning and confused and hurt, wondering why she’s unworthy of her mother’s time, or attention, or even fondness.

But it still hurts, still makes him feel about three inches tall that her mom thinks he’s basically a scrub, isn't worth the time of day, has no reason to be anywhere near Laurel because he’s beyond useless. He knows that Elena’s not looking out for Laurel, for what she actually wants, but it still hits him like a punch in the gut. He just wants her family to like him, accept him, the way his family does with her. He wants to know, even though it's selfish and pathetic, that other people can see what Laurel sees in him, don't look at her and wonder what she’s doing with someone like him, don't think Laurel’s slumming it until she comes to her senses.

“I get nothing out of it that _you_ think is important,” Laurel corrects. “But _I_ do. Helping people, that’s important to me. Frank is important to me. And that’s all that matters. I’m not twelve anymore and your approval’s no longer important to me.”

“The only thing you think important is your ridiculous rebellion. It's childish and honestly it's embarrassing that you’re twenty five and you still think that you’ll find your happiness in rejecting everything your family can provide you; wealth and stability and success.”

“Jesus, Elena, just leave it alone, please,” Vanessa urges as her mother opens her mouth to speak again.

“It's fine,” Laurel tells her sister, one side of her mouth twisting into a lopsided smile. “I’m not gonna fight anymore. Promise.”

“You’re still a coward,” her mother tells her viciously, taking a long swallow of the last of her drink.

Laurel ignores the bait though, stares intently at her hands as though she’s trying to set the beach towel on fire with her eyes, a deep frown sliding onto her face and her body vibrating with tension. After a long moment, she exhales slowly and stands, pushing up off the sand quickly. She doesn't bother to look back at Frank, or Vanessa, or her mother, just stalks off down the beach, footfalls heavy and leaden against the sand. He stares after her, unsure of what to do, unsure of what exactly has happened, whether Laurel’s angry or sad or just totally fucking disgusted.

At least until Vanessa gives him a look, derisive and pitying and maybe a little disgusted herself. “Frank,” Vanessa tells him forcefully, eyes swinging from him to her sister’s retreating form. “Go after her, _Jesus_.”

“Yeah?” he asks, feeling stupid, feeling lost. He half thinks that Vanessa’s suggestion is a terrible one, that Laurel clearly wants to be alone, wants to remove herself from not only the argument with her mother, but from other people as well; wants to calm down, regroup on her own until she’s capable of facing her family again. But then again, he oughtta at least try, see if he can make things better, even a little bit; let her know that he’s on her side through everything.

“Yes, Frank,” Vanessa insists, rolls her eyes and sighs heavily and exhaustedly, as though she can’t understand how he could be so stupid, so dense. “Jesus, yes. Go after her.”

He frowns, looks down the beach to Laurel, and gets to his feet. “I’m gonna trust you on this,” he tells her as he wipes sand from his hands. “You better not let me down.”

He catches up to Laurel quickly; she slows her pace once she realizes he’s come after her, lets him match her stride and walk beside her for long minutes. He thinks that must mean she wants him with her; thinks she’s stubborn enough to tell him to fuck off if she wants to be alone, thinks he’s secure enough to take it if she does. Finally she sinks to the ground, heavy and final, curls her legs up under her.

Frank sinks to the sand next to her, sits silently beside her until she finally huffs, lays her head against his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Frank says under his breath, hand gliding against the too-soft span of her back fingers tripping over her warm skin.

“Don't let her get to you.”

“I don't,” she says, then corrects herself with a little scowl. “I try not to.”

“Forget about her,” he says, drawing Laurel closer against his chest, sliding her hair back and placing a quick kiss against her neck. “Don’t sweat what she thinks.”

Laurel hums. “I lied though. I still want her, and my dad, to be proud of me.”

He nods against her shoulder. “I know. But you can't make yourself crazy trying to get it.”

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I know.”

“Wishful thinking’s for chumps.”

She chuckles, knocks into him softly. “I got it.”

“Can you tell me more about Hugo the fox though?” he asks, teasing smirk sliding onto his face. “Why have I never heard about Hugo the stuffed fox before now?”

Laurel shrugs, and the corners of her eyes narrow just slightly. “I don't have him anymore.”

Frank just raises his eyebrows, waits for more of the story.

“I left him when I moved out. I could only take so much with me, so,” she pauses, bites her lip for half a second as though steeling herself to continue with a little moment of pain. “Elena tossed everything when she redecorated my room.”

“Seriously?”

She nods, gives a little hitch to her shoulders like a shrug, like its no big deal. “It's ok, it's not like I needed a stuffed animal anymore.”

“You got something better to sleep with now?” Frank jokes, flashing her a cocky grin, trying to ease the lingering flash of hurt he can see somewhere deep in her eyes.

“Something like that,” she agrees, little smirk slipping onto her face, hand stroking through his beard, lips ghosting over his. “But at least Hugo the fox wasn't a smug bastard.”

He laughs, kisses Laurel softly and leans back on the sand. She follows him back, laying her head against his chest. Frank shuts his eyes, runs his fingers against her side and listens to the soft rhythm of her breathing, the low rumble of the surf falling against the sand.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (somewhat) lighter chapter since the next three or four are gonna be pretty rough...like probably the roughest of the whole fic.  
> But this one is nice and sweet first

“Hey,” he says low in Laurel’s ear, fingers walking up her side until she squirms into his body. “We doing dinner with your folks?”

Her shoulders hitch and she turns her head slightly to regard Frank. “I dunno. Maybe Hector will recommend someplace to eat, we can skip out on any more family time. Celebrate getting engaged since we haven't really had a chance to do that yet.”

Frank frowns. “I thought we had to keep up appearances.”

Laurel hums against his chest. “That was when I thought I was gonna turn on him. Now, what does it matter?”

“And you don't want to spend your last night with them?” he probes, though tries to do it gently, tries not to push Laurel to make any decisions, stake any positions she can’t walk back.

“I just want this trip to be over,” she confesses, and Frank watches her wince slightly, sit up and hug her knees. Frank follows after her.

“Oh c’mon,” he teases. “You know you want to spend another dinner watching your brother get sloshed and salty.”

“You like him,” Laurel says, lips ghosting against his bicep, light and teasing. “I can tell. You don't want to, but you dig my brother.”

He chuckles. “I do,” he admits. He does, as easy as it would be to hate him, he finds himself liking Laurel’s brother. Hector’s a mess and he’s angry and hurt and might be falling completely apart, but Frank knows he loves Laurel, fiercely and messily, and he can’t fault the kid for that. Laurel needs more people who are in her corner without reservation, who are looking out for her, and he thinks Hector, in his own completely screwed up way, is trying to do that, is trying to make it up to his sister and protect her now, as best he can. He likes Vanessa too, if he’s being honest. She’s prickly and a little reserved and maybe kind of a mess too, but he thinks she maybe tries to stick up for Laurel when she can.

“Good,” she tells him simply. “I like him too. Mostly. It’s the rest of them I can’t stand.”

“Your sister?” he prompts. Frank doesn't know why he’s doing this, trying to get her to admit her love of her siblings against her better intentions, but he barrels on anyway. Her family is fucking horrible, he has no illusions about that, each of them toxic and painful to Laurel in their own unique way. But it still kills him that she’s going to give them up, walk away completely, slam the door on them and then brick it over. He wants her to find some middle ground, some trick, some cheat that will allow her to keep her family, even the twisted sporadic contact she’s managed since he’s known her.

He wonders if Hector is smart enough, crafty enough to continue a relationship with Laurel even after she severs ties with her father. He’s not too sure, doesn't think Hector’s able to keep much close to the vest, withstand any kind of pressure, especially from his father. He doesn’t worry about Vanessa too much, though he does worry about Laurel’s likely guilt over dragging her into the no man’s land between her and their father, thinks that Laurel will simply treat Vanessa as a prisoner of war, given up for dead and will have nothing further to do with her. It hurts him to think that she has decided she must make this choice, that there are no other options open to her, even though Frank half suspects it's true. He doesn't think either of them, no matter how hard they try, will be able to come up with something better, something that keeps her from feeling like she’s caught in the middle of a battle neither side deserves to win.

Laurel’s scowling hard, her smile instantly replaced with something harder, something not quite angry, but close. “I like her fine. Usually. But Nessa’s like Hector in a lot of ways, she’ll only fight battles she knows she can win. Lets everything else slide.”

Frank gives her a sidelong glance, mouth twisting, trying not to grimace. “Sounds smart to me,” he ventures.

“It's easy, sure. But I just can't do it. I can’t let him think I approve, that I don't know what he does.”

“But why does he need to know that?” Frank presses. “Why do you even care that he knows?”

Laurel runs her hand through the sand, creating little furrows with her fingers, then swipes her hand through the trails with a vehemence that makes him pause. She turns away from Frank, looking off to the side so he can only see her in profile, staring distantly at the ocean. “Cause he doesn't care what I think, is going to do what he wants anyway. But I need him to know that I think what he chooses to do is horrible. And if he does it anyway, well, that’s not fine, but it is what it is. But he needs to know that he’s not doing it for me, that he's only doing it for himself. I don't give him permission to use me.”

“That seems like a lot of trouble for what's essentially an academic point,” he tells her cautiously. “A lot of trouble for a point he’s not even going to notice.”

She nods, doesn't look angry. “Probably. But I still think it's important. To me if no one else.”

He gives her a look and Laurel’s eyes flick back to him, just for a second, recognize the question in his glance.

“I can't be like him,” she tells Frank with a vehemence he wasn’t expecting, but decides he really, really shouldn't be surprised by. “I’ve spent my entire life trying not to be like him. And every time I think I’ve done it, that I’ve finally slipped free, become someone decent, something else happens that makes me realize I haven’t. That maybe I _can’t_.”

“You can,” he says, then corrects himself because that’s not true at all. “You _are._ ”

Laurel ignores him and when he goes to take her hand he can see the way her fingers tighten by degrees against the sand. He stills his own hand, drops it to the ground beside her, their arms close but not touching, so that if she wants to take his hand she can.

“That was why I thought it was ok to come down here,” she whispers after a long, long moment, eyes still distant. “I thought I was finally good enough to come back and face my dad and be ok. I thought having you with me would help, remind me of who I’d become, that it was someone good. But I’m not really that person.”

“You are,” he insists. Frank knows he can’t convince her, that it's not his place to do it, that this is something Laurel will have to figure out, or not, for herself. Even so, he wants to repeat it until she starts to believe, wants to repeat it until she doesn't know anything else.

Laurel shakes her head. “I’m not. When things are easy I can let myself be someone good or kind. I could be the person I wanted with you, in our easy, boring life. But that's not who I really am. I don't think I ever can be.”

“Our life isn't easy, or boring. It's normal. This,” he tells her, gesturing expansively to encompass the house, the beach, her family, maybe the entire damn state of Florida. “This isn't normal. Anyone would be twisted here. Hell, I was here for, what, twenty four hours and your dad was asking me to kill someone. It's not you, babe, it's this place, or your dad.”

“You know,” she tells him, mouth quirking into something that could maybe someday be a smile. “That line doesn't play any better here than it does during a breakup.”

He shrugs, cautiously threads his pinky through hers on top of the warm sand. “Doesn't mean it's not true. Down here you have to be messed up to survive. But that's not you. It's who you had to be down here, but it's not who you are.”

“It's not that easy. I’ve been that person for so long I don’t think I can be anyone else. Or, can’t leave that person behind, maybe. And the only thing I have left, the only thing that convinces me I might not be as bad as him is that I hate it; that I’m still able to hate what he does, what he’s made me into.”

“And that's why you have to tell him what you think of him?” Frank asks gently.

“Yeah. I have to do it for myself, have to keep myself accountable,” she tells him, leaning into his shoulder, letting her body settle against his, warm and heavy, like she’s trying to seek comfort through his skin. “I can’t let myself be anything like him, can’t let myself forget, even for a minute, what he is.”

“He’s still your dad though,” Frank points out, almost before he can help himself.

“He’s a monster first,” she says vehemently, so insistently he becomes convinced she’s overcompensating, trying to convince herself of something she’s not entirely sold on; the irredeemability of her father, the intrinsic corruption or innate badness. “I can't forget what he is, look at him and see the man who taught me to read and overlook the monster.”

“I can’t really imagine him reading _Where the Wild Things Are_ to you, even if it is about monsters,” he says, trying to make a joke, flashing her a crooked smile.

“You’d be surprised,” she says, rolling her eyes affectionately so that he begins to think she’s maybe, almost alright. Except then he sees her mouth turn down and sees tears forming in her eyes, slow and heavy. “He loved _Alice in Wonderland_ and C.S. Lewis, which both have enough of their own monsters. Plus,” she adds, softly. “I don't really think a book trying to sell me on unconditional parental love would have been particularly helpful.”

Frank frowns, runs his thumb gently across her cheeks, wiping away the tears sliding down, wishing he could wipe away Laurel’s entire history with her father. “So don't go back,” he tells her, kissing her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, so softly he’s not even sure they touch. “Stay with me and the other wild things.”

Laurel blinks away her remaining tears, inhales sharply and when she exhales again Frank can tell she’s put her armor back on, pushed the memories down somewhere she doesn't have to dwell on them, no longer has to feel anything. “I think it's more likely he’s the wild thing,” she says, offering him a tentative grin at her halfhearted joke.

“So tell him to go fuck himself and we’ll retreat back to Philly, sleep with our eyes open for a couple of months and we’ll stick a couple of new locks on the doors. I’ll ask Nicky if I can borrow his gun.”

She shakes her head quickly. “No guns. I don't want to change for him. We don't have a gun now, we’re not getting one just because I’m worried about him.”

“What about a bat? Maybe mace? Or a taser?”

“Frank,” she grumbles, but there's no real heat behind it. “We don't need an armory.”

“No?” he asks, a little more insistent than he thinks he really ought to be. Laurel’s had enough fights in the past three days, he’s not enough of an asshole to start one more. “Can't hurt though.”

“Yeah,” she insists as the corners of her mouth slant downward. “It can.”

“Ok,” he allows. “But we're getting the extra locks.”

Her frown remains, but her eyes are soft. “You’re installing them then.”

“I think we should keep your hands out of commission for a few weeks anyway.”

Laurel glances down at her hands, at the scars across her fingers, at the thin white gauze covering the fresh stitches on her palm. She closes both fists, scowls. “Probably a good plan.”

“And you gotta tell me about any Special Agent pen pals, ok?” he urges. “Can't keep stuff like that from me anymore.”

She nods stiffly. “I know. I didn't mean to, I just never knew how to bring it up, what to say to you without having to explain everything.”

“’Hey Frank, I have a Federal Agent stalker who is trying to take down my criminal mastermind father,’” he offers, grinning at her. “You could’ve started there.”

“You make it sound a lot easier than it is.”

“Everything sounds easier on paper,” Frank says. “But you gotta do it, we gotta be a team, Laurel. How the hell am I supposed to have your back if I don't know what's coming after you?”

“Ok,” she says, taking Frank’s wrist softly, just for seconds, leans forward and places a kiss against his shoulder. “No more secrets or evasions. No more trying to solve things on my own.”

“That's what you have me for,” he says, flashing her a lopsided grin. “I’m a great sounding board.”

“I just,” Laurel begins, eyes falling away from him, biting her lip softly. “It's hard Frank, talking about him or the rest of my family. It _hurts_ and I _hate_ it.”

“I’m not gonna make you talk about it,” he assures her. “Not if you don't want to. You just gotta tell me the big stuff.”

“I don't know if I can, even the big stuff. I thought that I could come back and things would be ok, that maybe I was strong enough to tell you about these things once we’d made it down here. But I was just fooling myself. I was just burying my head in the sand, didn't have to think about my dad or what he does or how Elena’s made it clear my whole life I was just a Catholic mistake. I think I’m really just more fucked up than I could imagine.”

“You're not fucked up, you’re just trying to get by. Same as anyone. And we’ll go back home and things’ll go back to normal. And if you wanna talk, I’m here. And if you don't wanna talk, that’s fine too. And if you’re sad or angry or fucking _hungry_ , it's my job to fix it. I _will_ fix it, Laurel, no matter what it takes, no matter how long it takes me. Promise,” he slides his fingers against the little paper ring on her left hand, slides it around and around so that she feels the skid of the paper against her skin, so that he hopes she can feel in her bones just how much he means it.

She glances down at her hands, up at Frank. When she does, her eyes are clear, deep and blue. “I’ll be fine,” she tells him. “I promise. I might take a while, but I will. I know I will.”

“Yeah?”

Laurel nods, smiles thinly but certain. “Yeah. It's like, I dunno, an aftershock maybe. It hurts, it may knock down a few buildings, but it's never as bad as the real thing. I’ve gotten through the worst of it, I’m just dealing with some unexpected tremors.”

“Ten years later though,” Frank points out. “That’s not aftershocks, that's a whole new earthquake.”

“Stop ruining my metaphor,” she tells him, knocks her shoulder into his.

“Stop coming up with bad metaphors then,” he says, rolling his eyes, brushing her hair back and sliding his lips against her neck until she shivers.

“Frank,” she whines, high and breathy. “We’re not having sex on the beach.”

“No?” he asks, walking his other hand up the long, smooth space of her side, sending goosebumps blooming in the wake of his fingers like morse code. “Cause that's exactly what it looks like we're gonna do.”

“No,” she insists, though he can tell from the hitch in her voice it won't take too much convincing. He knows she’s halfway to agreeing just because his hand’s climbed to trail against the swell of her breast, trip along the edge of the fabric that barely covers her, because his lips are pulling against her pulse point, thrumming hard and fast and low gasps are being pulled from her throat likes pleas. “We’re gonna get sand _everywhere_.”

“Nothing a shower won't take care of,” he growls against her neck, his hand slipping under the scrap of fabric, brushing featherlight against the hard peak of her nipple.

“Says the person who’s not going to get sand _inside_ himself,” she says, summoning strength from somewhere to give her words some semblance of heat, even as she presses against his hand, craving more contact against her breast. “I’ve done this before, Frank, it's gonna be bad.”

“What if we’re careful?” Frank asks, pushing her top away so he can lower his mouth to her other breast, catch his teeth against the skin.

“It's sand,” she laughs, tight and breathy and he thinks maybe, maybe, he’s got her. “Sand doesn't really _do_ careful.”

“Well I do,” he insists, lets his tongue lave over the swell, the curve of her breast, sucks against the sensitive skin until it blooms red and bruised, until Laurel’s high little whine sends bursts of pleasure straight to his dick. “I’m gonna make this work if you're willing to trust me.”

Laurel rolls her eyes with less heat than he expected, slips her hand between their bodies to cup him, already half hard and straining, through the material of his trunks, stroke him slow and languid until he’s fully at attention, until he doesn't care about sand or saltwater or casual passerby or the horrible things they have waiting for them back in the house, until he only cares about her and himself, about the craving building in his blood. “I trust you,” she tells him, tugging at the hair at his temples until he lifts his head, until their tongues tangle together. “But only cause I did kind of hint at beach sex when I talked you into this trip.”

“I woulda agreed anyway,” he admits, unable to stop the hitch of his hips against her hand as she slips her fingers beneath the waistband of his shorts, thumb circling the head of his cock. “But I’m glad you’re holding up your end of things.”

“I’m on top though,” she growls into his ear, tugging on the lobe hard enough he hisses in a mix of pain and pleasure he can't begin to untangle.

“You say that like I’m going to object,” Frank laughs.

“Just wait till you’ve got a sand enema,” she warns him.

He laughs again, until Laurel tugs down his trunks, lets his cock spring free between their bodies, and the laugh turns into a hiss, a growl of pleasure as the air meets his skin.

She runs a string of kisses over his jaw, against his beard, before lowering her head and taking him into her mouth, tongue running across the underside of his cock, swirling around the sensitive head until she rips a strangled groan from his lips.

“Or we could just do this instead,” she offers, smirking up at him, tongue darting out to taste the bead of pre come glistening on the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he whispers as desire pools low in his bones, builds hot and thrumming to an inferno. Laurel’s hand moves to cup his balls, nails catching lightly as she moves over them, caresses them until he can barely breathe for the tightness in his chest, his gut.

“That a yes?” she teases before taking him into her mouth again.

He grunts, words escaping him as Laurel moves her lips over his cock, takes in his length and begins to move over him. She moves, slow and languid, lips stretching and curving into a smile as he runs his hands into her hair, tangles in the strands because he can’t not touch her, as she feels the tension in his body, the wanting. The smile is pleased and proud and Frank knows how much she enjoys reducing him to this, this wordless thing only capable of chasing his desires. He knows how powerful it makes her feel, knowing the control she has over him, how much pleasure she gets out of seeing Frank turned into nothing more than an outlet for his basest cravings.

Her lips swirl around the head of his cock, then take the length of him in again, head bobbing as she moves faster, making a little humming noise in her throat that makes his eyes roll back as another spike of pleasure shoots through him. Her thumb runs against his hipbone in time with the strokes of her tongue against him and Frank can only give himself over to that feeling, to the feeling of her mouth against him, hot and wet and tight, the look in her eyes, blown wide with wanting.

Laurel hollows her cheeks, hums again as her tongue slides against the underside of his cock, moving fast enough Frank’s brain can hardly keep up, it all blurs together into just need, into desire, into the curling, building pleasure deep in his chest.

She must be able to tell, must be able to see the tension in his face as he tries to fight off the impending break, the clench of his jaw, feel the strain humming through his blood, because she caresses his balls again, moans around him and the sparks of pleasure finally ignite, burst and explode like fireworks, like flame and he’s coming, hard and hot and fast. And Laurel drinks him down, swallows thickly around his cock as he comes, like she craves his taste, only a few beads glistening thick and milky against her swollen lips, her chin.

She grins, runs her thumb across her lower lip, across the last of his come that lingers there, pulls the pad of her thumb into her mouth, sucking on the flesh, sucking down the last of him like she’s tasting the remnants of something she’s not yet had her fill of. She rises from her knees, straddles Frank’s hips and kisses him, long and lingering; her tongue, salty with his taste, tangling with his, her hands running through the shorts strands of his hair.

She moans against his mouth as one hand cups her ass, the other snaking between their bodies to push aside the fabric of her bikini, tease her center.

“You still worried about sand?” he murmurs against the side of her neck.

Laurel shivers, her breath catching as Frank speeds up his hand against her entrance, slipping through the wetness gathered there. “What?”

“Sand?” he repeats, chuckling at her distraction, her lack of focus.

“Fuck sand,” she tells him. “Make me come.”

“What was that?” he smirks as his thumb circles her clit, brushing softly against the little bundle of nerves. “I’m not sure I heard you.”

“Fuck sand,” she repeats, breathy and gasping. “I don't care where it gets, as long as you make me come.”

“That's what I thought," he chuckles, slipping two fingers inside her, curling his fingers as he slides them through her dripping heat, feels the clench of her walls against his knuckles. He speeds up the pace of his strokes, kisses her jaw, the long line of her collarbone. Laurel muffles her moans and sighs against his neck, his throat, her hips pistoning to meet the thrust of his hand against her. She’s close already, he can tell, already teetering on the edge of a precipice, the tension in her body thick and vibrating like a live wire.

“Harder,” she rasps. “Please Frank.” One hand clutches at his shoulder blades, the other pressing his hand tighter against her center as he fucks her. His fingers curl harder, tighter against her, the pace of his thumb almost punishing against her swollen clit. He runs his beard against the soft space behind her ear, lips fluttering against her pulse point, his other hand coming up to her breast, rolling the hard peak of her nipple through his fingers. She comes then with a high wordless cry, walls tightening around his fingers as he continues to pump her, lets her ride it out against his hand.

She kisses him, sloppy and soft, smiles against his lips.

“Any sand anywhere horrible?” he asks when the harshness of her breathing has calmed, when the pounding of her pulse has reduced to a dull thrum, when her eyes have lost that wide, desperate hunger and are just slow and warm and thick lidded.

She shakes her head, grins slow and warm, lips whispering against his neck. “Not so far.”

“Good,” he says. “I promised didn't I?”

Laurel nods. “You did.”

“I’m gonna be honest though,” he admits, giving her a sheepish grin, running his hands down the smooth expanse of her sides. “You weren't kidding about sand getting everywhere. I think I’ve got an entire sandcastle down my trunks.”

Laurel just laughs and rolls her eyes, and her kiss tastes like an apology, like thanks, like his love for her, messy and perfect and maybe he doesn't mind at all when her lips are rough against his with sand and salt.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

As the sun begins to sink low, darkness creeping over the sand, Laurel takes his hand, leads him back into the house, back up to the guest room. The both shower off quickly, Frank managing to dislodge most of the sand that's cemented itself to his skin with only minimal eye rolling and ‘I told you so’s’ from Laurel.

“We should pack now,” she tells him flatly as she finishes running a towel through the dripping strands of her hair. “Might not have time once I talk to my dad.”

He looks up sharply at her, a question in his glance. “That still the plan?”

She nods. “It is.”

“You expect it's gonna be that bad?”

Her eyes give nothing away, her mouth slanting down harshly. “I don't know. But I’d rather not take the chance.”

“Probably smart,” he agrees, reaching quickly for her hand, squeezing gently before going to the bathroom, grabbing his things from the counter. By the time he emerges into the bedroom again, Laurel’s throwing the last of her clothes into her bag, scowling darkly down at the bed, still clad in only her towel.

“You gonna confront him wearing that?” Frank teases, raising his eyebrows suggestively at her, crooked grin splitting his face.

“Shit,” Laurel says, grinning, glancing down at her towel-clad body. “Shit.”

“If it was anyone but your dad I’d say it’d be a pretty good strategy,” he offers, pulling a pair of slacks on over his boxers

“Frank,” she chides, rolling her eyes at him with a little scoff.

“Just stating facts.”

“I’m sorry you didn't really get to appreciate all the things I packed,” she tells him, letting the towel drop to the ground.

He swallows hard, doesn't think he can take his eyes from her body. “I think there’s plenty to appreciate.”

She laughs lightly and steps toward him, laughs as Frank smooths his thumbs across the angles of her hipbones, rasping his beard along her collarbone. He kisses the little freckles that have appeared like sunbursts against her shoulders from the sun.

“Stop trying to distract me,” she murmurs, breath coming quick and hitched as her hand rises to fist in his hair.

“Stop being so distracting.”

She laughs again as her knees hit the bed, pulls Frank down with her. His fingers are itching to stroke against her center when there’s a sharp knock at the door.

“Fuck,” Frank breathes as Laurel winces, flops her head against the bed and sighs heavily. “What the hell?”

He rolls off her, searches for a shirt and watches as Laurel hastily pulls clothes on, scowls at the floor because he really, really likes when she's not wearing clothes.

“One second,” Laurel calls out, quickly slipping a black tank top over her head and buttoning her jeans.

She catches Frank’s questioning glance, shrugs as she goes to open the door.

“Sibling dinner,” Hector announces as Laurel cracks the door, saluting his sister and Frank with a half empty beer bottle as he glances around her and into the room. “Elena agreed to watch the kids and I checked with Paola; she’s willing to make sure things don't get out of hand.”

“Where?” Laurel asks, eyes narrowing as she crosses her arms over her chest, though she does allow the door to swing wide, let her brother come into the room as she steps back to Frank’s side, tucks her body against him and easing into his touch when Frank slides his arm against the span of her back.

Hector looks almost offended. “The correct answer is ‘awesome, let me get my coat.’”

Laurel shrugs, keeps her arms crossed. “Sorry.”

“Ugh,” he sighs. “Fine, we’re going to the Route 1 diner.”

She glances up to Frank, must see something in his face because her mouth quirks slightly, turning downwards. “I think we’re gonna pass, ok?”

“L,” Hector whines. “C’mon, sibling dinner’s important. Plus, it’ll be shitty without you.”

“I need to talk to dad,” she tells him, voice like a sigh. “And I’m not really feeling up to going out.”

Hector practically growls. “Seriously? Stop being an idiot Laurel. Just get through tonight and stop poking the bear. Please.”

Her eyes close briefly in pain or exhaustion; Frank can’t even begin to tell. “I’ve got to Hec. You know I do.”

“Yeah, yeah I know.”

“But hey, I can watch the kids for Nessa if she wants. So long as dad lets me stick around,” Laurel offers with a wry grin.

“Probably a better idea than leaving them with Elena.”

“How bout you just meet us later,” Hector suggests with an ugly twist of his mouth. “Whatever happens with dad.”

She nods. “We’ll think about it.”

“Will you at least text me when it's over?” he asks. “Let me know you’re alive.”

“Hector,” Laurel begins. “It's not gonna be like that.”

“Yeah,” he tells her, scowling fiercely. “That's exactly how it's gonna be.”

She steps forward, squeezes Hector’s shoulder firmly. “I’ll give you proof of life.”

“You gonna do it now?” he asks, swallowing thickly.

Laurel nods. “Probably. No time like the present.”

“I’ll ride with Nessa to dinner,” he tells her. “Leave my keys in the car in case you need ‘em.”

She turns to Frank, shoots him an inscrutable look, eyes shuttered, already distancing herself from what she must do. “You want in, or no?”

No, he wants to tell her. He doesn't want any goddamn thing to do with any confrontation with her father and she shouldn't either. What he wants is to get through this fucking disaster of a trip and get the hell back to Philly. And he really wants Laurel to feel the same. But he knows that's a sad pipe dream, knows Laurel’s stubbornly committed to making clear to Jorge where she stands, knows she thinks she needs to in order to reassure herself she’s nothing like her father. So he figures that he needs to make the best of a horrible situation, do what he can to lessen the damage, the risk to Laurel. Hell, if he has to he’ll throw a few punches, give her a few extra seconds to get the hell out of danger.

So he just nods like an idiot, takes a long, slow breath, and tries to steel himself into faking a confidence he doesn't feel. “Yeah,” he tells her. “Yeah ok, I’m in.”

“Good,” she says and he thinks she almost smiles. “Thank you.”

He wonders idly how the first fight went, back when Laurel was eighteen, when she told her father she was done the first time. She made it out of the house, out of Florida, lived to fight another day; but then again, Frank thinks, she hadn’t threatened to turn on her father, turn him in or burn him. He wonders what the plan is now, how she intends to confront him, make clear that he should consider her as good as dead. No, not dead, Frank corrects himself once the word sinks in like a noose around his neck, heavy and tight, never that word. Invisible. Unreachable. _Something_.

“You know where dad is?” she asks Hector, her voice already sounding distant, sounding blank and vacant, like she’s closed herself off, walled her heart away somewhere secret so that she doesn't have to feel any fear and grief and anger. So that she can focus only on the task she must perform, reach her goal without the danger of being sidetracked by emotions. There is a richness that flees her voice, Frank thinks, a heaviness, like he’s suddenly hearing only a shadow, or the outline of her voice.  
Hector too, gives Laurel a sharp look, like he can hear the flatness, the great distance in her words. “Office, I think,” he tells her with what Frank can only describe as caution, reluctance.

Laurel nods firmly. “Good. We can make it like a business meeting. Let him know I quit.”

Frank wants to point out that you can’t really quit a family, not really, no matter how much you may hate them, no matter how toxic they may be, and certainly no matter how far you run. You can make new families, ones born of affection not blood, and you can go for weeks, months, years, without thinking of them, without a backward glance. But he doesn't think Laurel can really quit, can really leave her family behind; they’re why she’s Laurel, the messy, complicated, brilliant, cunning woman he loves. Without them he doesn't know what she’d be, doesn't know if she’d be anywhere half so perfect, half so fucked up.  
She tried quitting once, tried it cold turkey, Frank thinks, and look how that turned out. Look how that _failed_. He suspects for this to work she has to try something new, something that won’t lead to being dragged back, by affection, by guilt, by fear. He just doesn't know what that would be, doesn't think she has half a clue either.

So ok, fine. He’ll go along with Laurel’s awful doomed plan, because really, what else do they have. 

“I love you, Hec, ok,” she tells him then, giving her brother a long, searching look. “Ok?”

He nods, swallows thickly and wraps her tightly in his arms. “I know, L. I do. I love you too. Just God, get through this so I can hate you a little bit again, please.”

Laurel laughs, hand going to her brother’s cheek, turning his head so that he has to meet her eyes. “You don't need me Hector,” she tells him, and Frank’s stomach drops, roils, because it sounds like a goodbye, an apology, like something final and terrible. “But it's ok if you want me around anyway.”

He smiles, though Frank sees Hector swipe his thumb under his eye, wipe away the beginnings of tears in a gesture so like Laurel, Frank feels his breath stutter, his heart catch. “You’re the only one who gives a damn about me, L, of course I want you around,” he tightens his arms around her body, kisses her hair. “Please L, get through this.”

“I will,” she assures him. “Frank’ll make sure I’m ok.”

“You better,” Hector warns him, glancing up and fixing Frank with a look halfway between pleading and threatening.

“Hector,” Frank says, tries to keep the growl from his voice, the quiet note of malice. “I’m not magic, but I’ll do what I can do keep her safe, I promise. She’s not on her own, not anymore.”

“Sometimes not even if I want to be,” Laurel adds, stepping back into Frank, letting him wrap his arm around her shoulders, draw her to him.

“Good,” Hector nods. “I’m gonna trust you with my sister Frank, because I don't trust her to know when she's fighting a losing battle.”

Frank purses his lips. “This isn't my fight, man,” he tells Hector. “But I trust her. To know when she’s in danger, to know what she needs to do even when she is. Ok?”

He nods again, a little stiffly this time. “You’re right. She's smarter than both of us, gotta remember that, even if she is my baby sister.”

“You ready?” Laurel asks Frank, squeezing his hand, reaching out and taking her brother’s giving it a squeeze as well.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Let's do this.”

So he follows her through the house, back to Jorge’s cluttered little study. She doesn't bother to knock, just bursts into the room, Jorge looking up sharply and hastily setting down the phone with a furrowed brow. Frank notices that he doesn’t hang up, only puts the phone on hold, pauses the conversation. 

“ _Mija_?” he asks after a long moment where his eyes flick to Laurel, to Frank, down to his desk, back to Laurel, like a trapped man looking for the nearest exit. “What is this about?”

“I need to talk to you,” Laurel tells him, practically demands it. “Before I leave.”

“Now?” he asks her. “Can’t it wait? I have to speak with my broker before the markets open in Tokyo.”

“No,” Laurel says forcefully. “It can’t wait.”

Jorge scowls. “Is this about Barrow?”

“Its about me.”

He practically rolls his eyes, and Frank finds himself inhaling sharply before he can stop himself. He thinks that this is probably the worst decision Jorge could make, to not take Laurel seriously, to not listen when she demands it, to attempt to brush her aside. But he thinks that Laurel is certainly used to this, certainly she doesn't flinch, just continues to barrel forward, west her father’s attention from his phone, his computer, from half a dozen things he considers more worthwhile than his daughter.  He thinks Laurel too, should be smarter than this, should realize that starting off this inevitably horrible confrontation with a pissed off, impatient Jorge is going to make it even less likely that Laurel makes it out in one piece.  He thinks she knows, though, knows and doesn't care; not now, not anymore.

“This won't be long,” she tells him. “Tell Matt you’ll call him back in twenty.”

Her father nods. Clearly he knows, whatever Laurel needs to talk about, Jorge knows it's bad, knows it will not be a short conversation. He picks up the receiver, speaks into it quickly and cradles the phone. “Alright,” he says placatingly, spreading his arms wide against the desk. “What is so important you must speak to me now?”

Laurel glances at Frank and he sees her chew her bottom lip nervously, sees her hands begin to tremble. He has a sudden moment of clarity where he thinks she’s going to balk, thinks she won't continue forward. But then she sucks in a long, slow breath, clenches her hands into fists and Frank sees a hard diamond-like quality come back into her eyes, sees her jaw clench and her chin raise defiantly and he knows she’s ready for war, knows she won't let herself feel anything from here on out. He thinks that she isn't really Laurel anymore, that she’s some creature wearing Laurel’s skin, some creature filled with nothing but wrath and cold, cold fire.

She sits, heavy, in one of the chairs, Frank following robotically after her. She leans forward, hunched, her spine curved as though she wants to fold into herself, shrink down into nothingness. Frank thinks that for all her strength, all the hard anger striking heavy lines into her face, she’s still just a child standing up to her father. But more than that, he decides, she’s also a small, scared creature standing up to a bear, holding her ground and trying to force it to see sense, reason, logic; to have that bear look at her and decide she is more dangerous than it is. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of trying to talk logic to something that wants to eat you, trying to convince a creature that knows so well it's own power that all they have is an illusion.

“I need to tell you that I can't do this anymore,” Laurel begins. “Come down here, see you, see Elena. Its making me crazy.”  
Jorge raises his eyebrows but otherwise doesn't react. He thinks the gesture is simply an invitation to continue, to elaborate.

“Not because of Barrow,” she explains. “But because I don't like myself down here, I don't like what I have to be, what gets drug up. It hurts too much.”

“And why you are telling me this, Laurel?” her father asks, tenting his fingers and peering at her over them; eyes clear and hard, twins of Laurel’s own. 

“Because I want you to know why I won't be coming back to visit anymore, why I’m gonna cut myself off again.”

Jorge smiles wide, predatory. “Oh? And not because you want to be out of the firing line when Barrow and his agents swarm my door?”

Laurel gives him a quizzical look, opens her mouth to speak before her father barrels on.

“Don't lie to me,” he warns, eyes flashing dangerously. “You threatened to sell me out, practically gloated about it. And then David called me with some interesting information today. About you and Agent Barrow. And now you decide you must disavow me, cut yourself off from your family. Forgive me if I am not at least suspicious as to why.”

Laurel shakes her head, blinks rapidly, suddenly on the defensive. “No, it's nothing like that. I met with him, yeah, and I thought damn hard about selling you out. But I didn't, because we don't talk to cops. But I don't want to have to make that choice, don't want Barrow or anyone else coming after me. And I’m not gonna do it anymore.”

“And you think that will protect you, walking away?” Frank’s half surprised he lets Laurel get away with it, doesn't press her further about her insistence that she told Barrow nothing, that David’s suspicion is off-base, meritless. He thinks Laurel might have had the right of it when she spoke to David, might have been more right than she knew when she told David her father wouldn't believe a thing the man had to tell him about what he observed.

“It might,” she sighs. “And if it doesn't, I still can't be around you. I told you, it's about me, not you or Barrow or anyone else.”

“It certainly sounds like it's about me,” Jorge points out, raising one eyebrow slowly.

“No,” Laurel tells him. “It's about me. I can't be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I don't want to be miserable for the rest of my life.”

“And I make you miserable?” he asks her, still so, so casual, sounding like he’s only barely controlling his anger, disguising it as though he hardly cares, a bored predator ready to pounce.

“This whole situation makes me miserable. I don't want to do it anymore; having to think through every single thing I say about you in case someone is listening, having to hide you from my life, having to watch my back. I can't do it, dad, and I wanted to let you know, give you a warning.” Frank can tell from her words how shook up she is, how it tears at her; Laurel is rarely so hesitant, so unsure in her speech, rarely dances around the matter like he thinks she is. But her face remains shuttered and her voice remains level and flat.

“What is the point then?” Jorge asks her. “Why have you come to tell me this if you have no intention of speaking to me again.”

“I wanted to say goodbye,” she tells him, and Frank finally hears the crack in her voice, the little echo of pain and grief that slices through her words. He sees her blink quickly, blink away the beginnings of tears, suck in a wet and shuddering breath.

Jorge shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “I appreciate that you have told me to fuck off with more politeness this time. But you have still told me to fuck off, still insist that you are too good for me, for your family. And I’m afraid my response must be the same _mija_. You are an adult, and you can do what you want. But you cannot run away from who you are. And I will not condone what you do.”

Jorge’s eyes flick to Frank, and he scowls, crosses his arms over his chest. “I cannot believe you either, your insistence on morality on keeping yourself free from the evil things you think I do. You claim to love this man, Frank, want to be with him. And yet he is no better a man than I am, his hands are no more clean. So I can only assume that this must be about something else, something you cannot admit to.”

“I do love him,” Laurel says, hazarding a glance toward Frank, an edge creeping into her voice, an anger that is sudden and surprising, even though he’s not sure it should be. He almost expects her to cave, to crumble, because her father is voicing all the things he’s wondered maybe she still fears; about him, about the things he does, about what those things make him. She’s had to wrestle with the idea that he’s like her dad, reconcile the idea of the tasks Frank is asked to perform with the man he is, the man she knows better than anyone. He knows whatever decision she made it was one that allowed her to be with him, allowed her to love him, divorce what he does from who he is. But he knows it wasn't easy, and sometimes Frank thinks she might have doubts, might wonder if she’s not deluding herself. So the quick flash of anger catches him off guard, because he doesn't really expect her to defend him, to even be able to do so, since really, even he thinks it's close to splitting hairs to try and claim that he is a good man and Jorge Castillo is not. And yet, Laurel can. Because she knows him, loves him, sees things in him no one else can, no one else could even hope to uncover. “Because he’s a good man, he doesn't get enjoyment from hurting other people, he doesn't go out of his way to do terrible things.”

“And yet he does them, without complaint, same as I do what I must. There is no difference, you simply choose to believe one exists. And you delude yourself because you cannot let yourself love me, cannot let yourself hate Frank.”

“That's,” she begins, stuttering, floundering, arms going to hug her elbows so that she can hunch her shoulders even smaller.

“That's not true at all. I do love you, how can you think I don't?”

“You certainly act as though you don't,” he tells her darkly. “You run away from me, from what I do. And yet you have no trouble with what Frank does, you don't fear the consequences of tying yourself to him.”

“No one has ever come after me because of anything Frank’s done,” she points out bitterly.

“Not yet,”Jorge agrees. “And so here we are, Laurel, at the truth. Finally. Whatever you are doing has everything to do with your hatred of me, with your conviction that I am someone horrible, some monster.”

“No,” she insists, sounding desperate, sounding ragged. “I don't hate you, I just, I just can't do it anymore, dad. Let me put it in a way you can understand. I can't protect you, I can’t. I don't think I’m strong enough, and I’m sorry. I hate what you do, and I hate having to protect you. It was so tempting to just confess everything to Barrow, to just stop running and lying. I think the best way, the _only_ way I can protect you right now is by removing myself as a target for the people that want to take you out. Because I’ll crack dad, I will. I have too much to lose now, too much I can be threatened with losing. And I love you, I do, but I love Frank more, I love my life more and I’m not going to put that at risk for you. Not anymore.”

“So you flee?” he asks. “You think that you can run away and live some idyllic life where nothing bad happens, where no one will know you’re my child, or where no one makes you answer tough questions, make hard decisions? Is that what you think?”

“I think that I can’t be what you need me to be. I can't protect you like I did before, because I think what you do is _horrible_. I know what you do now, understand it in a way I couldn't then, understand just how horrible _you_ are.”

“Yes,” her father says darkly. “Yes, we come back to this. The point where you insult me, tell me just how much you hate me.”

“I don't hate you,” she assures him, voice catching on itself, frayed. “I just can’t protect you. I don't even know if I realized it until now, until I saw Barrow again, or thought _hard_ about Nestor, really thought about how he had every intention of killing Hector and me. How little it really would’ve mattered if he killed me. I didn't care, not then, not really. I didn't want to die, but I didn't really _care_. There wasn't anything I was living for, nothing I was fighting to get back to, to see again. But now, God,” Laurel laughs, high and sharp. “I’d hand over everything if I thought it would save me or save Frank. And you can't rely on that, you can't have me anywhere near you if that's how things are. Because to survive, you have to have only people who’s first loyalty is to you, to the secrets you share. And that can't be me, not anymore, maybe not ever again. You gotta understand what I’m doing, dad. I love Frank, I love my life, but I love you too, despite myself, and I’m trying to protect you the only way I can right now.”

Frank thinks that maybe it is not the revenge she intended, not the sudden, permanent toppling of Jorge’s empire that Laurel had wished she could oversee, not wiping him out like a child putting his hand through a Lego tower, but it's probably the best revenge, the most painful and perhaps the only one she could ever hope to achieve. Because there is nothing Jorge can do to combat Laurel’s admission, nothing he can say that will buy her loyalty to him over her loyalty to herself, over the unbreakable unit she and Frank comprise. He can’t own her, not fully, not in the way he needs, because while none of them were paying attention, were really thinking about it, she chose Frank. Or no, he decides that’s not quite correct; Laurel chose _them_ , her and him, chose the tiny, unimportant, still-fragile existence they’ve been slowly building, together. And, Frank belatedly realizes, there’s not a damn thing Jorge can do to shake that commitment, not now, and the only options open to him are to accept it or destroy it. Either way, Frank thinks, Jorge can’t get Laurel back as a loyal foot soldier; that opportunity has long since passed.


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some canon-typical descriptions of violence in both this and the next chapter. But since the show is literally about murder, the canon-typical violence will be fairly intense.  
> Basically, in the next two chapters, everything you think Laurel's dad might be capable of, he probably is...

“And if I came after Frank, came after your life in order to keep you loyal to me?” Jorge asks, voice low so he has to strain to hear. There is a thin, pleased smile on his face that Frank is smart enough to fear because it is the look of a man excited at the idea of causing pain; Frank can see his pupils widen, see Jorge’s face flush but his breathing settle. “What if I made mention of certain aspects of your life to the Board of Law Examiners? Or called in a tip about Frank here? I’m sure someone would be very interested in what I have to say.”

Laurel gasps sharply, like she’s been wounded, but the look in her eyes matches her father’s, eyes wide and laser-focused. He thinks he's watching a game of chess between two people who don't care about finesse, who don't care about their pieces, who don't really even care about winning, their only goal is defeating their opponent, humiliating the person across from them. “If you make any moves to destroy what I’ve managed to build for myself, I will burn you to the ground or I will die trying,” she vows, voice laced with anger. “You’ll have to take me out or I will bring you down.”

“Laurel,” he laughs, light, mocking, lets his hands gesture wide, expansive to encompass the room. “Do you really think you can take me down? Do you really think it would be so easy? To destroy all this?”

“I don't know. But I know I wouldn't stop until you had nothing. You think I’m worthless now, unimportant; just a cog in your machine, and maybe I am. But I still know where the bodies are buried. You wanted me to be like you, and you let me know too much, took too many risks.”

“You have no proof,” Jorge tells her simply, leaning back, wide and confident. “You have less than nothing, in fact. Anything you have I could deny. Because those crimes will vanish, and if they don't, I can make those crimes yours instead.”

“You could,” she agrees frankly, conversationally. Frank can hear no anger in her voice, she sounds simply like she’s stating facts, reciting the terms of an already established agreement. “You have plenty people who’d say I did it. But I don't mind taking you with me. I’ll tell the Feds I acted on your call, get you on conspiracy, as an accessory, on a RICO charge. I don't care. But if you ruin what I have, what I’ve built, I _will_ destroy you. Even if I have to go down with you.”

“So you have presented me with two choices it seems. Either I agree to let you walk away, with no guarantee you will not sell me out, or I must kill you?” Jorge purses his lips, steeples his hands taps the tips of his fingers together, watches his daughter cannily over his joined hands. “It seems like the smart choice would be to simply kill you.”

“You let me do it before,” Laurel points out, barely flinching at the mention that her father appears to be strongly considering her murder. Frank feels the pinpricks of fear at the back of his mind turn to jackhammers, loud and insistent, demanding his intervention, demanding that he get Laurel the hell out of this rapidly worsening situation. He ignores them, tightens his grip on the arms of the chair and forces himself to breathe, low and deep and slow, forces himself to trust Laurel, to rely on her knowledge of her father, of the situation, and to get them through it.

“Because I knew you would remain silent, loyal.”

“I will,” she insists. “I don't want to burn you, but I can't protect you anymore. Not with what you do, and not with what I’d be risking now.”

“Where does this leave us, _mija_?” he asks her, hitching his shoulders. “How do I ensure you pose no risk to me or to my interests?”

Laurel frowns. “How am I supposed to prove a negative dad? But have you ever had reason to doubt me when I give you my word? I put Barrow off your trail, doesn't that count for something?”

“Do you really think I have gotten to where I am by relying on faith or promises? Especially when you threatened me twenty four hours ago, threatened to destroy me, told me I’d ruined you.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” she asks, something desperate edging its way into her voice. “ _Is_ there anything I can do, any way we don't wind up as enemies?”

“I don't believe there is.”

“Ok,” Laurel whispers, then seems to gather herself, draw strength into her body from somewhere, sets her spine straight and stiff, leaning back in her chair so that her posture mirrors her father’s. “Ok. Then that's that. You better kill me now. Because if you don't I’ll take you down before you can get to me.”

“You would really prefer I kill you over promising loyalty, silence?” he asks, sounding almost curious to Frank’s ears, like Laurel’s finally said something to him that’s piqued his interest.

She nods. “Yeah, I would,” she admits, and Frank thinks he sees the beginnings of a wry smile sliding onto her face. “It may be easy and it may mean less danger, but I’m not going to let you threaten me into protecting you. So you make your choice and I'll make mine. But it's not gonna help you, killing me. Frank knows enough to make trouble. And Hector. He’s a fucking coward, but he’ll do what he needs to. Not because he owes me, not because he’s afraid of me, but because he loves me. So you’ll have to worry about all of us. Not to mention Barrow, who’s already trying to make trouble. So I know it doesn't pay to kill me. Not today.”

“Doesn't mean I wouldn't.”

“No, I suppose not,” Laurel agrees. “But it would be stupid, and rash; we both know that. And you’ve never let yourself be stupid. I can't imagine you'd start now, no matter how angry you are.”

“Hector is taking you both to the airport tomorrow,” Jorge says casually, a little twist of his mouth casting it in cruel, vicious lines. “It wouldn't be hard at all to silence all three of you.”

“Don't,” she cuts him off with a snarl. “Don't make idle threats. Because if you let me walk out of this room, I will make sure that if anything happens to me, eyes will go to you. I will ensure you suffer, ensure you never get a moment’s peace, that I take you down.”

“You threaten me, Laurel? You have no idea what I would do to protect what's mine,” he warns.

“That's true, but you’ve always told us to take the deal,” she says fixing him with a long, fierce glare. “So take it.”

“So you blackmail me?”

She nods, still holding her father’s eyes. Frank thinks suddenly of staring down a large and vicious dog, trying to convince it to stand down, that she’s bigger, stronger, fiercer than it is. He thinks Laurel’s mostly bluffing, but also that she really has nothing to lose, is going for broke because losing is not an option. “It's what you’d do in my position. I’m gonna use what leverage I have. It's the only play.”

“It's stupid,” Jorge tells her. “Stupid and overconfident. But you are fortunate, _mija_ , that I have so much more to lose than you. And so I will not call your bluff, because that's what it is.”

Laurel’s mouth quirks, pulls down into a frown. “It's not a bluff, dad. It's mutually assured destruction. I know it, and you know it too.”

Jorge rolls his eyes. “Very well,” he tells her patronizingly. “Whatever you wish to call it, I will give in to your demands. Because you are correct, I don’t fight when I don't have to, don't pass up a deal when it will make my life easier.”

“You should be glad though,” Laurel says sarcastically, something bitter in her words, giving Jorge a smile that is all teeth, sharp and dangerous. “Isn't this what you wanted? I’m just doing what you taught me; going after where the enemy’s weakest. You wanted me to be a monster like you, well, this is what that looks like.”

“I certainly didn't teach you to gloat like a child,” her father says lowly, eyes flashing. “And certainly not when you have such an insubstantial victory, one that relies on my continued alliance.”

“I know you believe we’re still enemies,” Laurel assures him. “I won’t forget that. And I know you won't either.”

“Well,” Jorge begins, standing from his desk. “Is there anything further?”

Laurel looks at him, sharply, brow furrowed and head cocked.

He goes to the door, opens it slowly and stands there, waiting for them. “We have reached a deal it seems. I cannot think of anything else you could need from me.”

She flinches, winces, and Frank sees her fingers go to her lips. “Dad…”

“No,” he cuts in. “You have made clear your wish to be done with me, to condemn me entirely. We cannot now part as friends.”

“Ok,” Laurel whispers with a tilt of her chin. “If that's what you want.”

She goes to the door, pauses in front of her father and leans against the door jam, looking up at him, pleading. Jorge looks past her coldly, lets no emotion show in his eyes. Finally Laurel sticks out her hand, offers it to her father. Frank thinks he can see the tears forming in her eyes, can see the tremble in her limbs.

“Laurel,” Jorge tells her. “You cannot shake the hand of the man you just extorted.”

She inhales sharply, eyes getting big. “Ok,” she says again, taking her hand back, tucking it close against her body, hugging herself close, shoulders turning in. “I love you dad, I hope you can remember that even if you don't believe it.”

Jorge’s mouth twitches, Frank thinks he tries to sneer but it flares and dies, just turns into a frown. “You can say anything you like to make yourself feel better, but we both know where we are leaving things.”

Laurel nods. “Bye dad,” she says, holding his eyes for a long, lingering moment before moving to slide out the door, Frank rising from his chair to follow after her.

Before Laurel can slip past him, slip out the door, Jorge strikes. He has her pinned against the door, an arm across her throat before Frank has even made it six inches.

Laurel struggles against the crushing pressure of her father’s forearm, lifting her chin in an attempt to get air past the tightening against her throat, her hands clawing at his arm, ripping long scratches down his skin for half a moment before she just stops, stills, lets her hands settle against her sides. 

Frank’s brain only belatedly catches up to what is happening, stops moving as well, grasps hard at the pen that has somehow appeared in his fist, clutched like a blade, until his knuckles turn white. He’s too far away, and too slow and too stupid and he knows, _knows_ that violence isn't going to get them out of this disaster of a situation. Not against Jorge, not when his arm is pressed so forcefully to her throat that Frank can see the tendons in his forearm straining. He knows, _knows_ that anything he does will come too late to help Laurel, knows it with a churning terror deep within his veins. So Frank steps back, lets his hands drop to his side, taking his cue from Laurel and relaxing, even though everything within him demands he step forward, demands that he protect her.

“A very wise choice, Frank,” Jorge tells him calmly, lazily, not even deigning to look at Frank. His breath comes slowly, evenly and Frank thinks this must be a practiced move, because it occurred too swiftly, to fluidly to have been a spur of the moment decision. And because, well, he knows, all too well, how quickly a restricted airway can lead to loss of consciousness; something like thirty seconds on a bad day. And Frank knows, can recognize from the look on his face, the grip of his hand, the tension in his forearm, that Jorge is not looking for Laurel to pass out, is allowing just enough air to reach her lungs that she stays awake, alert, feels the full crushing weight of the terror that comes from not being able to move, breathe, not knowing if the next inhale will be her last. “Now step back please Frank, while my daughter and I talk for a moment longer.”

Laurel’s eyes are wide with fear, the whites blazing in the corners of her eyes, but she lets her gaze slide to Frank, nods almost imperceptibly, and he sees her hands relax at her sides, sees her suck in what breath she can, slowly, so that she no longer fights for air, no longer struggles against her father’s weight against her throat. “Frank,” she rasps weakly, voice so low, so hoarse he barely recognizes her, a croak strangled, smothered, held tight and fast. “Don't. Please.”

“You believe I will not kill you?” Jorge asks, a note of disbelief, of laughter in his voice. His voice is low, controlled, full of malice and yet there is something like joy that Frank detects ringing in his voice. He is in his element, Frank thinks, fully at ease, fully aware of what choices to make to get what he wants, the outcome he desires. He tilts his head toward Frank again.

“Do _you_ believe I will kill her?”

Frank ignores the question, keeps his eyes fixed on Laurel, on the deep blue of her gaze, still alert, still searching him out. If she gives him any sign, he thinks, any indication, he will attack, will drop her father where he stands, with his bare hands if he must, doesn't care about the consequences for himself. But Frank has learned, and learned well, that Laurel knows what she’s doing, that she can fight her own battles, make her own choices. And Frank knows, with a surging, wild flash of insight, just where she learned her preternatural calm, her sometimes infuriating ability to wait, to watch, to calculate and listen. And now she needs him to do the same, to stop, to watch and to let this terrible power struggle, this jockeying for power play out to its natural conclusion without his intervention.

“No?” Jorge asks, raising his eyebrows skeptically at Frank, hums for a moment, pleased. “You think I will spare Laurel just because she’s my child?”

He must tighten the pressure against Laurel’s throat because she makes a choked little noise, fingers scrabbling for half a second against the wood of the door and Frank thinks he can see the whites of her eyes turn red as capillaries burst like fireworks behind her eyes.

Quickly then, so fast Laurel doesn't even react, Jorge replaces his forearm with a hand against Laurel’s neck, fingers tightening until the knuckles turn white. He is practically lifting Laurel from her feet with the force of his grip, but still she barely resists, her eyes still fixed on Frank’s though through the fear clouding his mind he thinks they begin to look a little duller, a little more fearful, terrified.

“We’re going to talk you and I,” Jorge tells her, his voice flat, bored. “And you are going to answer my questions. Do you understand, Laurel? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

She glances away from him, keeps her eyes fixed on Frank, her arms still hanging loose at her sides.

“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” he repeats, voice going low and his hands tightening against her throat. “Do you understand me?”

She blinks once, slowly, and obviously not fast enough, obviously with not enough fear, not enough deference, because Frank sees Jorge’s eyes flash, sees him glower and draw closer to Laurel, allowing him greater purchase against her neck.

“You still think I will spare you?” Jorge asks then, baring his teeth, practically snarling now. “You still think I will have even an inch of mercy for you if you betray me?”

God, he thinks, the thought sudden, unbidden, but it comes to him with a certainty that makes his blood turn to ice; Jorge’s gonna fucking kill her. He knows it, suddenly, certainly, and knows that if he doesn't want that to happen, it might just be up to him. Frank steps forward and instantly Jorge’s eyes shoot to him. “No Frank,” he warns, lifting up the edge of his shirt with one hand to reveal a short, black gun. He takes it from his waistband, points it casually at Frank. “I really wouldn't do that.”

Frank steps forward still, thinks that if Jorge has to shoot him, he can’t keep his grip against Laurel’s throat, will have to let her go or loosen his grip or something, _something_ that will let her get free. Hell, Frank thinks, he might not even have to get shot, might be able to distract the man if he just keeps coming, remains unfazed by the gun pointed at his chest. Another step forward, but still, no shot, no loosening of his fingers against Laurel’s neck. At least, he thinks, Jorge begins to turn his attention to him, away from Laurel. The closer he gets the easier it will be for Laurel to get free, get safe.

“Hey,” Frank cuts in, tries for menacing, enraged but his words come out taut and pleading. He still clenches the pen in his fist, held like a blade, ready to strike. He steps forward, angry, boiling, and desperate, so fucking desperate for this to stop, for the nightmare to end. “Enough, Jesus. You wanna shoot me, fucking shoot me. But let her fucking go, alright? Just, just let her go.”

If anything, Jorge’s hand against her throat tightens and Laurel’s eyes slip closed, wincing, teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

“Frank,” Jorge commands. “Step back.”

“No,” Frank tells him, taking another long, slow step forward, his eyes never leaving Jorge’s face. “You’re gonna have to shoot me.”

He only registers the casual, unconcerned shrug Jorge sends him after its happened, only registers that a shot’s been fired when a sharp, burning pain sparks across his neck and cheek. All he knows is the sharp, high sound that comes from Laurel, a sound that would be a shout, a warning, but instead comes out horrible, smothered and sick. It's only long moments, long terrible moments later, when his eyes swing to Laurel’s and the fear in them, the panic in her eyes seeps into his bones, settles in his heart, that he even realizes what's happened; that the gun’s gone off, that Jorge’s shot at him, that the shot entered the wooden bookcase by his head, sending sharp little splinters into the side of his body.

He flinches, he can't not, his brain only barely catching up with the curve of time. His left hand goes up to his neck, palm tripping over the rough wood stuck against his skin, fingers coming away sticky and warm. Jorge still has the pistol leveled at Frank, but now a long slow grin stretches across his face, one eyebrow cocked. “Another step Frank and it will no longer be a warning.”

“Don't fucking warn me,” Frank growls, feeling what he decides must be blood beginning to slide down his neck, the pain strange little itching needles against his skin, his eyes never leaving Laurel. Her eyes slip closed as Jorge’s hand presses more firmly against her windpipe. “Just do it if you're going to. And then get your fucking hands off her.”

Jorge chuckles darkly, the sound low and menacing. “You’re lucky I’ve given you one. You remember what I told you about alerting Agent Barrow to my plans for him? Most people who go against me never get a warning at all.”

“Then get on with it.”

He laughs again, pleased with Frank’s anger, his insistence. “No, Frank. Not yet. I need you alive for the moment. My daughter has a choice to make.”

“Let her go,” Frank tells him again, sliding forward slowly, daring Jorge to take another shot, daring him to turn his attention to Frank, away from his daughter.

“No.”

And then, and then, Laurel’s eyes flick open, meet his, clouded, sluggish but they pierce through him anyway. And with what little strength she has, Laurel shakes her head, blinks twice at him. Slowly, clearly. No. Urges him to step back. He takes another step anyway, not quite believing, not quite willing to abandon his plan, the only plan he thinks has even half a chance of getting Laurel out of this situation alive. But again, two blinks. _No_. Insistent and pleading.

“Frank,” Jorge tells him, continuing to level the nose of the slick black gun at Frank’s chest. “Listen to my daughter. Stay out of battles you do not understand.”

One blink, one long, slow blink from Laurel. A yes. Agreement. _Step back_.

But he can't, damnit, he can't just step back and leave Laurel to whatever horrific outcome her father has in store for her, it's not that fucking easy to just shrug and trust her, trust that her father isn't going to do something even worse, something permanent. It would be easy if he didn't love her, it would be easy if it didn't feel like he was somehow betraying her, _failing_ her by not doing something, by not figuring a way out of this situation, a way to spring her free, a way to fucking protect her.

But he does, he loves her more than he loves himself, loves her more than sense and caution and far beyond any measure he could possibly use to quantify it, far beyond the ability of any words to describe it. And it feels like he doesn't love her, like he’s not fighting for her, like he’s abandoning her if he steps away. He promised to always have her back, and he meant it, and Frank can't, _can't_ accept that having her back may look like this, may mean stepping backwards, stepping away and leaving Laurel to fight the battle alone. He can't and he won't, because he swore, to himself if no one else, that he’d keep her safe, that he’d fucking protect her, prove that he was worthy of her the only way he knew how.

But God, God, he’s just making things worse, and Laurel’s holding his gaze as best she can, even though he can tell her eyelids are like lead weights, threatening to drag down, close, as her father’s hand remains clenched around her neck, tightening further with every second Frank lingers in indecision. Nothing he does is going to change this, is going to fix this situation, he knows that, knows it in his bones, the knowledge settling hard, heavy, certain. This has nothing to do with him, he knows this too, and every second he spends trying to distract Jorge, every second he spends trying to save her is one more second that Laurel can’t breathe, that her father’s hand clutches tight and vice-like around her throat. And if he doesn't listen to her, doesn't _trust_ her, he’s going to get both of them killed, he’s going to get _Laurel_ killed, slow and painful and brutal.

So Frank steps back again, hands at his sides, continues to watch Laurel who is making these rasping, wheezing sounds that sets fear bursting like bombs in his heart, in the tips of his fingers, behind his eyes. But whatever it is, he knows she is not fighting it, not fighting her father, will let him do to her what he wants, even if that decision is to kill her. Frank cannot understand, cannot comprehend why, but he knows that's her intention, knows he should allow it to continue, whatever it means. He knows, simply, that he should trust Laurel, _must_ trust her. Because that's love too; knowing when it's not his fight, when he must leave some battles to the only person capable of fighting them, the only person with half a chance of winning them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have (many) thoughts about using strangulation as part of this fic. I'm not going to share them all here, but I very much went back and forth about including it as a plot element before deciding that it was something that made sense, at least to me, to be part of this particular fic with these particular characters as I see them. So, given that, I hope that it remains something that works, given again, this fic and these themes and these characters.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, canon-typical descriptions of violence in this chapter.

“Now, _mija_ ,” Jorge says lightly. “Do you understand? Blink once if you do.”

Laurel blinks slowly.

“Did you say anything to Barrow, anything that would hurt my interests in any way?” he smiles, all sharp teeth stretched wide. “Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Laurel blinks twice, eyes fixed on her father.

“Really?” her father asks, sounding less surprised and more curious. “Nothing?”

Two blinks again, slower this time. Emphatic.

Jorge hums slightly, grin slipping wider. “David called me today, as you know. Had some very interesting theories about your conversation with Agent Barrow. You did meet with him, yes?”

One blink, and a brief struggle as Laurel twitches slightly, something horrible, wet and sharp clawing it's way past Jorge’s grip and out of her chest. A noise like death.

“And there’s no chance any of David’s suspicions are correct?” Frank sees the hand around Laurel’s throat tighten just a hint more, Jorge’s hands turning paler, Laurel’s eyes widening, wild, before she summons something into herself, lets her gaze drift to Frank as the panic recedes.

Two blinks. And again. No. _No_.

“If you are lying to me, I will know that, of course,” he tells her casually. “You understand this?”

One blink, an urgency, a desperation in her face like she’s no longer certain she can make it through the conversation, keep herself calm, keep herself from panic.

“And you still insist you told Barrow nothing, that David’s accusations are baseless?” Jorge’s voice is soft, slow, though still filled with menace, as though he’s enjoying dragging the interrogation out, enjoying the growing look of terror on Laurel’s face.

One blink, her eyes darting around the room, wide now and dark with fear.

“You understand me, yes, that if you betray me for any reason, I will show you no forgiveness, no kindness? You can see this?”

She blinks again, her face white and colorless, and Frank can see the terror race in her bones again, surging forward, can see the way she tightens her fingers into fists, shuts them tight against her palms so hard he can see the skin break, see the quick pinpricks of blood that bloom against her hand. He sees too the cloudiness in her gaze, the growing confusion and fear there. He thinks, perhaps, that it's starting to dawn on Laurel that her father might just kill her, might just do it to prove to himself that he can, that he _will._ “And I see too that you mean what you say, that you will not act against me. You truly meant that?”

Another long, slow blink, sluggish and fighting against the desire to close, to stay closed, to allow herself to slip into painless unconsciousness.

“Yes,” Jorge tells her sympathetically, clucking his tongue as she opens her eyes again. “I expect you just wish to sleep now. Well, it will be over soon. Just a few more questions.”

Laurel shuts her eyes, keeps them closed, but her fingers unclench, fall open at her sides.

“And if I told you I would spare your life if you agreed to pledge your loyalty to me,” Jorge asks. “To protect me against my enemies? One blink for yes, remember.”

Laurel blinks twice, slowly, clearly, practically glares at her father, even though she is powerless, defenseless; even though she struggles against the darkness Frank knows is growing at the edge of her vision, creeping closer and closer to taking her under the heavy, smothering waves.

“If I gave you a choice, told you I would kill either you or Frank? Who would it be? Once for Frank, two for you.”

Frank’s eyes remain on Laurel and she gives him a little hiccup of a nod, struggling against the vice like grip against her throat. She blinks twice, clearly, eyes never leaving him.

Frank feels his heart plummet, his breath go tight. He’s spent all this time thinking that, whatever happened, he could protect her, save her if it came to it by sacrificing himself. That he’d put himself in the line of fire and give her the means to escape. He’d fucking take a bullet for her, had really meant it when he told Jorge to shoot him if it had meant, as he’d thought, that Laurel might get a chance to get free. But she’d been thinking the same thing, been making her plans and crafting her strategies and deciding that Frank’s life was more valuable than her own. How could Frank ever hope to save her when all of her plans involve saving him instead, getting Jorge to forget the request he made of Frank, the kill he’d told Frank to carry out. How can Frank do a damn thing when Laurel loves him more than she loves herself.

“Very good, Laurel,” her father tells her then. “Now, are you sure; is that who would you pick? Frank or yourself; one blink or two?”

There is not a moment’s hesitation before Laurel blinks again, twice.

Her father hums, smiles wide. “Very good,” he tells her again and just as suddenly as he had moved, Jorge has released his grip against her throat. “It is very good you were not lying to me.”

Laurel collapses instantly, slides down the wall on shaky, unsteady legs, doubles over to take long, shuddering, wheezing breaths, sucking in heavy lungfuls of air. Her hands clutch at her neck, spread wide against the column of her throat as though she can open herself up, force more air through her chest into her lungs.

Jorge tucks the gun back into the waistband of his pants, steps away from Laurel. Frank goes to her, pushes past her father, goes to take her arm, goes to meet her eyes. And freezes, doesn't want to touch her, doesn't even want to speak to her. Not until he knows she can stomach it, can stand his touch, his presence.

She must sense him there, see the shadow cast by his body or feel his breath on her face because Laurel looks up, eyes lifting to his face. She coughs then, loud and harsh and desperate, crackling and wheezing as she tries to suck air into her lungs, hands scrabbling hard against her knees. “I’m ok,” she whispers, barely audible, practically mouthing the words, unable to summon the air to make her words clear. “It’s ok.”

She turns, looks hard at her father, left hand stroking against her neck, her chest, trying to massage air back into her lungs, taking huge gulps of air, eyes still wild. Frank thinks he sees dark bruises already bursting under her skin, shattering and sparking like cobwebs along the thin, pale expanse of her throat. “Did you get what you needed?” she rasps. “Do you know I’m telling the truth now?”

Jorge nods. “I certainly have less reason to doubt you.”

“I’m done,” Laurel tells him, speaking around the long breaths she pulls in, her voice landing heavy and crushing like a gut punch. “You chose not to kill me. But you’re going to pretend like you did. From here on out. Pretend I’m dead. Because to you I am.”

Jorge flinches, looks stricken for the first time, face blanching pale and bloodless and his eyes widening in something like shock. And then he summons back his mask, the cool nonchalance slipping back into place, across his eyes. Jorge purses his lips, nods politely to his daughter. “Of course. That was our deal after all.”

“Good,” she croaks, her chin jutting stiffly, defiantly. “I don't take it back though. I love you, despite myself, despite what you do, despite who you are.”

Jorge raises his eyebrows. “You’re weak and you're naïve and you’re foolish,” he tells her. “You’re _nothing_.”

Laurel doesn't flinch, just holds her father’s eyes, refusing to wilt under his dark glare, refusing to give him even an inch, let him see that he has caused her any pain, any fear, that he has at all shaken her heavy, certain calm. “I know. But whatever I am, you made me that way.”

She steps forward, keeps her eyes fixed on his face, glares up at him before turning, slipping from the room.

Frank, like a ghost, like he's sleepwalking, trails after her, but stills, looks long at Jorge, tries to still the rage churning in his blood, clenches his hands into fists. He half wants to say something, wants to tell him Laurel knows exactly what she's doing, that he’ll have her back through everything, will protect her at any cost. He wants to tell him too that if Jorge so much as looks at Laurel, so much as thinks about her, thinks about speaking to her, reaching out, he will put Jorge down like a dog, consequences be damned; Frank doesn't care if doing so will end in his own death too.

But if Laurel’s taught him anything, it's that these little verbal victories are insubstantial, mean nothing in light of action, of actual results. And he wants to plunge a blade between Jorge’s ribs, slide it into his heart, wants to wrestle the short-nosed gun from Jorge’s fingers, send a handful of quick, flashing shots into his chest, into the center of his forehead, leave him broken and gasping and bleeding, wants to do it so badly his fingers itch, tremble with the desire. But he knows that will be even worse than responding, than taking the bait. So instead he meets Jorge’s eye, gaze hard and unflinching and slips out after Laurel, letting Jorge shut the door heavily behind them.

Laurel walks with quick, clipped steps down the hall, the back of her hand pressing hard against her mouth as though trying to keep words or laughter or tears at bay, as though she knows she is protecting the air still flowing through her lungs. Frank follows after her, around a corner until she finally stops, back pressing hard against the wall as though she wishes it would swallow her whole.

She sucks in a long, slow breath, her eyes slipping closed.

As she does, there’s a muted crash from behind them, from the office, followed by a string of low angry shouts, too distant for Frank to make out, to interpret, and then three heavy thumps. He has no idea what it means, whether it signals victory or defeat for them. Whatever it is, Laurel’s eyes stay closed, palms pressed flat against the wall, her breath coming slow and harsh.

“You did it,” he tells her softly, so that he doesn't spook her, going to take her hand. Instead, he stops short, his hands frozen in the air, hovering beside her shoulders, hesitant, cautious, as though he fears touching her, breaking her. Laurel is the strongest person he knows, and yet, Frank is still terrified that she will recoil from his touch, will flinch against the feeling of his skin against hers given the violence, the rage contained in the last touch she felt. “It’s over.”

Laurel laughs, barking and ragged and desperate, something wild in the sound, feral. He can’t tell whether she’s laughing because it's over or because it's not. She steps forward then, into his chest, his arms instinctively coming up to circle around her, protect her. One hand fists through her hair, the other stroking against the small of her back, feeling her shuddering breaths against his palm. Somewhere her laugh turns into a sob, harsh and choked. Her whole body shakes, trembles with the force of it, so hard he thinks she will shatter like glass. His hands tighten against her body, as though he can keep her together, keep the pieces from breaking apart, can slow the cracks or just shield her from feeling this loss, this grief, this finality.

He tries not to think, tries to focus on the feeling of Laurel in his arms, the feeling of her alive, breathing, safe; tries not to think of her father's heavy, long-fingered hand tightening against her throat, tries not to think about the panic in her eyes as she struggled for air. Frank tries too, not to think about Lila Stangard, goddamn Lila Stangard who’s thin white throat he wrapped his own gloved hands around until she was limp and cold, tries not to think of the terror in her eyes as she lost the fight for air, for consciousness, for life. Tries not to think about his own hands, his killers hands, pressed now against Laurel’s back, clutching her desperately, terrified still of losing her, tries not to think about how he can love her and be a man who would do _that_ , ever, to anyone. God, he thinks, if her father is a monster, what does that make him?

He can feel her tears, soft and hot like little knife blades against his chest, soaking his shirt. He cradles the back of her head, presses her cheek against his heart, hopes she can feel the beats against her skin, hopes she can take some comfort from it. Frank ignores the quick pinpricks of pain that bloom in his neck as she presses her body into his, ignores the feeling of the splinters digging further into his skin. That can wait, his pain can wait. She’s all that matters. Laurel’s breath comes clipped and quick and fluttering, like morse code between her sobs and he wants nothing more than to be able to decode it, wishes it were some mystery to be solved and not this, not this heartbreak he can't even lessen, that maybe he doesn't deserve to lessen.

Frank wants to say something, wants to tell her it will be ok, that she made the right choice, but hearing the high, keening noises she makes, hearing the sobs that wrack her body, he knows he cannot stomach the lie.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her instead, because he thinks that's all he can say, the only thing that doesn't ring with falsehoods. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Her small hands cling to his back, one fisting against his heart, clinging desperately to the material of his shirt, the other scraping hard against his shoulder blade, painfully, but he just tightens his hold on her body, draws her even closer to him until he thinks any more and they will become one person, thinks her skin will slip inside his. His lips brush against her hair as he whispers more worthless, useless words; tells her he loves her, that she's brave, that he’s sorry, always so fucking sorry. He doesn't even think he could list, given a million years, all the things he’s sorry for. Instead he just whispers into her hair, again and again, that she’s not nothing, that she’s everything to him; always, the only thing that matters.

He just wants to go back in time, take Laurel from here, somehow, give her to a new family, a family who could love her, appreciate her, who could fucking protect her and put her first, who wouldn't hurt her, again and again and again. Frank thinks that he wouldn’t even care if it meant she’d be some new and unrecognizable Laurel, if it meant he’d never meet her, that she’d never even be able to love him; because then at least that Laurel’d be whole, undamaged, wouldn’t be feeling this unquenchable pain, sorrow, whatever. He’d give her up, completely, without hesitation, if he could change things and make her better, take away even an ounce of what she’s feeling, if it would shield her from all the terrible, haunting things.

They stay there, for minutes, for hours, for days, until Laurel’s sobs quiet, until her tears dry thick and stiff against his shirt. She stays pressed against his body, her arms still clutching at his chest, his back, but she turns and lifts her head, stares up at him with eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot and still clear, clear blue. She blinks and a few more tears spill down her cheeks. Frank lifts his hand from her back to wipe them away, but Laurel hisses sharply, hand tightening against his skin and he stills, slips his hand back against her body. She lifts the hand pressed against his chest to her face, swipes angrily at the tears, quick and harsh.

“Enough,” she says, somewhere between a sigh and a command, and Frank can’t interpret whether she’s speaking to herself or to him or to the universe. He thinks either way it’d make sense, either way he’d understand. “Enough.”

And yet, even as she speaks, he can see her breath hitch, catch against something tight and hard in her throat, see the tears spill against her lashes, slide in slow trickles down her cheeks.

She reaches up, touches a place on Frank’s face, near his cheek, runs her hand over the broken flesh there, so, so gently, pulling a little ribbon of wood away with her fingers. She pulls another from the line of his jaw, the rough space of his throat, strokes her fingers over the lines left by the still weeping blood.

“I hate him,” she whispers to Frank’s pulse point, a last little hiccuping sob escaping through her clenched teeth. “I hate him so much. And I hate how much more I love him.”

“I know,” he tells her roughly, brushing his knuckle against her cheek. “I know, and you’re allowed to; hate him or love him; whatever it is, you’re allowed to feel it.”

“We need to leave,” Laurel tells him finally, sucking in a long breath, her eyes suddenly clear. “Staying here’s not an option.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, tightens his hands against her back before he can help himself as she steps away from his body. “Didn't think so.”

They collect their things quickly and quietly from the guest room, stash everything in the trunk of Hector’s car.

“Do you,” Frank begins as he shuts the trunk heavily. “D'you want to say goodbye to anyone? Your mom, or…”

Laurel flinches, shakes her head quickly, tries to keep the tightness from the lines of her face. “No.”

“Where we gonna go then?” he asks. “Tonight?”

She goes around the car, without answering, gets into the driver’s seat. Frank follows after her, but keeps the passenger door open, keeps his feet out of the car while she thinks, just in case she reconsiders. He’d bet his life that she doesn't, not now, but he has to leave the door open to it, allow her the chance to pick a different path. “We can crash at Hector’s I’m sure. Or there’s always a hotel,” she shrugs. “Have a real vacation for a whole twelve hours.”

Frank chuckles despite himself. “I’d rather not sleep on your brother’s shitty futon, no matter how bad things are.”

Laurel’s mouth twists into something that could have once been a grin, but against her bloodshot eyes, against her rapidly darkening throat it just looks gruesome, like a snarl, a sneer. “He’s actually got a pretty sweet houseboat. Couch isn't great, but it'd just be for the night.”

“How’s his view?”

“You’ll be impressed,” she tells him as she adjusts the mirrors, the seat height. “Trust me; he’s got a great view.”

“Should we ask him first? About crashing there?”

Laurel nods, starting the Civic, gives and angry flex of her fingers, stills the tremor in them. “Probably. And to make sure he has a way to get back to Miami before we steal his car.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” she asks, watching him out of the corner of her eye, though Frank thinks she doesn't dare to turn her head. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” he says again, gulping thickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just, I didn't expect all that. Not, not like that.”

She pauses, watches him cautiously for a moment before she puts the car into gear, pulls out of the driveway. “I’m sorry. But it's done now. He won't try anything, not so soon.”

When, he wants to ask, when will Jorge decide his daughter’s reprieve is over, when will he decide she’s had enough of a head start on him and will seek her out, seek to punish her further. When will he know whether Laurel has bought herself days or weeks or months? When will it be clear she’s no longer safe?

“God Laurel,” he says instead, running a hand through his beard, trying to calm the still churning panic in his gut. “I didn't know it was gonna be this bad. You shoulda told me what he was like.”

“Would it have mattered?” she asks, mouth pulling into a thin line, not quite a frown, but he thinks she comes close.

“I don't know,” he admits. “I don't even know if I’d’ve believed you.”

The corner of her mouth quirks. “People always think they’ll be able to spot a monster, think they’re smart enough to recognize some sign. But what makes him a monster doesn't show on his face, it's what he does.”

Frank thinks that's probably true, that what makes a monster is how well they hide, how far they can go before they’re discovered. But Jorge, well, he’s bold, no longer hiding in the shadows, no longer trying to disguise what he is. Frank thinks he can all too easily spot the monster lurking under the surface of Jorge’s skin, hopes desperately, prays really, that it's not because he too, is a monster too long left free.


	55. Chapter 55

“I should've done that years ago,” Laurel says after a long moment. “But I’m not sure I could've done it without you there. I dunno if I would’ve even believed I could.”

“You could,” he assures her. “You can do anything.”

Laurel nods, but turns away, jaw tightening. “Not really. I was just fooling myself, because if he’d asked, if he’d apologized, I would've come back, forgiven him anything.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to forgive him?”

“No.”

“And you,” he prompts. “Will you be able to forgive yourself?”

Laurel sighs, the sound rasping and ragged against her bruised throat. “Someday maybe.”

“It wasn't your fault,” he assures her. “Not any of it.”

“It was,” she says harshly, scowling at him with her eyes narrowed. “Plenty of it was my fault.”

“It shouldn't have been on you, not ever.”

Laurel sighs again, and Frank winces at the sound, turns his head towards the window so he can blink back his tears and his panic without Laurel noticing. When he turns back she’s stroking her hand against the side of her throat, swallowing hard as she winces. “Thank you,” she tells him. “For trusting me back there.”

Frank nods past the lump that makes his voice catch. “I trust you, Laurel, always. You told me to leave it, so I left it.”

“I know it was hard for you,” she tells him, reaches out without looking and takes his hand. “To not react, to not protect me, so thank you.”

“No,” he tells her, shaking his head as he rubs slow circles against the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’ve got your back, no matter what. Even if sometimes that means not doing anything at all.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” she reaches up, fingers again going to the broken skin at his neck, his jaw, smoothing over the rough flesh, her touch warm and soft and he can feel the apology in her skin. “But I think all the splinters are out.”

Frank shrugs, tries not to think about the little needles of discomfort still lingering in his skin. “He didn't hurt me. Hurting you is what hurts me.”

She glances over at him, something softening in her eyes. “Would you mind calling my brother?”

Frank sighs, rolls his eyes. “The hell am I even supposed to tell him?”

“That it's over and we’re both fine and we need to crash at his place.”

“That's,” Frank begins, sighs, runs a hand through his beard, startles, even though he shouldn't at the pain that sparks along his cheek. “That's not entirely true.”

“It's true enough,” she assures him, her voice clipped, turning her face from Frank as though she doesn't have the strength to have anything approaching a conversation with him. “He doesn't need to know the rest.”

Frank grimaces. “And if we see him? If he insists on saying goodbye before you leave?”

Laurel bites her lip hard, frown growing more pronounced. She strokes her fingers slowly along the expanse of her throat, massages the bruising skin there. “I don't know. But he can't know what happened, Frank, ok? Nessa either”

He just nods, swallows hard and stiffens his shoulders, tries to be like Laurel and make himself hard.

“If it comes to that,” she adds, fishing her phone from her pocket, handing it to Frank.

“Yeah,” he answers, thinking that there’s no way it _won't_ come to that, no way that after everything that's happened, everything Laurel had planned, that Hector won't insist on seeing her before she leaves, ensuring for himself that she is safe, unscathed, given what she had threatened.

He finds Hector’s contact, presses it and waits for the phone to dial. “You want me to put him on speaker so you can talk too?”

“Does my voice sound weird?” Laurel asks him, frowning slightly. “I’m pretty sure it sounds weird.”

He knows his frown matches hers. “It’s a little rough,” he tells her honestly, hearing the ragged edge in her voice, the syllables that sound like sandpaper have been run over them, harsh and clipped. “But not too bad. We’ll blame it on a shitty connection.”

Her smile slips crookedly. “Liar.”

“Whatever it takes,” he tells her as Hector picks up the line.

“Laurel?” her brother’s voice comes staticky and panicked over the line. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she tells him. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Thank _fuck,_ ” he says, and Frank can hear the relief through the line. “Jesus, thank God you're ok.”

“It wasn't that bad, Hec,” she lies. “Really.”

“You gonna come meet us at Route 1 then?” he asks. “We can hold off on desert if you want.”

“No,” she says after a long moment, biting at her lip. “We’re gonna pass, sorry. But Hec, hey, can we crash at yours tonight? Please?”

There's a long moment of silence over the line, longer than Frank thinks he needs, suspects that Hector can sense the lie in her sister’s voice, knows that things are worse than she’s admitting to. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, no problem, L.”

“Nessa can get you back home tomorrow?”

Another long sigh, followed by a quick, clipped conversation with Vanessa, Frank assumes. “Yeah, she says that's fine. When's your flight again?”

“Two,” Laurel tells him, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, in anger or frustration, Frank things.

“I’ll see you by eleven, ok?”

“Hec,” she protests, voice going low, hoarse before she descends into a fit of coughing.

“Nope,” he tells her, and Frank lets out a breath of relief he didn't know he was holding that Hector ignores his sister’s coughing. “You stay at mine, you put up with me seeing you off. Got it?”

“Got it,” Laurel says stiffly.

“Frank?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, catching the narrow-eyed look Laurel shoots him. “I got it too.”

“Good,” Hector tells them. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. We’ll get breakfast if I can get up in time.”

“Sounds good,” Laurel says, though if anyone asked Frank he’d certainly say it sounded exactly the opposite of that, thinks Laurel sounds like she’d maybe rather face just about anything else.

“Good,” her brother says. “Good. See ya then.”

“Yeah,” Laurel rasps. “See ya, Hec.”

Frank hangs up the phone, slips it into the cup holder next to Laurel rather than handing it back to her. “So,” he says. “Miami. You good to drive?”

She nods. “I’m fine.”

“And your dad,” he asks. “He’s not gonna come after you at Hector’s?”

“No,” Laurel tells him. “Not tonight.”

“And tomorrow morning?” Frank presses. He needs to know, needs to know how much danger they’re in now, and next week and next month, needs to know how much time Laurel bought herself and what they need to do to ensure that they escape Jorge should he ever reconsider his decision to let Laurel walk.

He sees her hands tighten against the wheel, sees the hard, angry cast to her eyes. “We’re fine Frank,” she tells him finally.

“Trust me.”

“I do,” he promises. “I do. But I wanna know you're safe.”

“I am,” she assures him, taking his hand again, letting it rest on his thigh. “He just wanted me to know he could, could kill me. But he won't.”

She must sense something skeptical, something doubting in his face because she scowls at him, hand tightening against his own until it's almost painful, insistent, demanding his attention. “I know him Frank; he just wanted to scare me, let me know what’d happen if I went back on my word.”

His nods, mouth twisting before he can help himself, takes a long breath and exhales slowly. He doesn't believe her, not at all, not when he saw the look in Jorge’s eyes, one Frank recognizes all too well; hard and determined and unflinching. And, above all, one all too familiar with using violence to get what he wants if other tactics fail. He thinks that it may make sense to Jorge now to leave Laurel alone, to trust her not to talk, to betray him, but Frank knows that may change, instantly, if it ever made more sense, was more advantageous to him, his interests, to eliminate her.

He thinks Laurel believes she is safe, now, that the danger has passed, but he knows that is an illusion, that they will always be living under the hanging threat of Jorge’s wrath, the blade always waiting to fall. Or perhaps she just doesn't care, Frank decides, feels that this is the best outcome she could have hoped for, the only result that will keep her, even temporarily, safe and free. He doesn't want to ask, certainly doesn't want to know, but he knows he will have to, eventually.

But not tonight. Tonight they will hole up in Hector’s houseboat with the great view and pretend that they are alone in the world. Frank will squint, will look at Laurel only out of the corner of his eyes so that he doesn't see the sickly blue-black bruises forming along her throat, and Laurel will try not to speak, try to pretend that this is her choice and not because every sound tears at her, rips long, bloody gashes across her throat. Tonight they will allow themselves the luxury of delusion.

They’re silent the rest of the way to Miami, and Frank watches in the flickering, stuttering street lights as Laurel’s scowl deepens, as her fingers trip along her neck, her chest, dig at the flesh there as though trying to open up vents, open up new airways, as long silvery streaks of tears track down her cheeks, drip onto her knees.

He thinks she doesn't want him to know how much she is hurting, wants to face her pain alone in the darkness and the quiet, so that when they finally stop, when she must face Frank again, she can pretend she is strong, iron and unwavering. He thinks she deserves these moments of falsehood, this lie she tells herself that she feels no pain, that the past three days haven't been an absolute disaster, thinks that if anything is owed to her after being born with Jorge Castillo as her father, it's that Laurel is allowed to grieve in peace, allowed to disguise her pain in the darkness if she wishes.

She pulls Hector’s car into a dimly lit parking lot, kills the engine. Frank can see the dark shadows of sailboat masts, the hulking heavy shapes of yachts ahead of them in the night, sees the bright twinkling lights of the city far ahead across the water.

“You weren’t kidding about the view,” he tells her, stepping out of the car, watching the glow of downtown Miami light up the water spreading ahead of them.

“Hector’s smarter than he looks,” Laurel tells him as she follows, goes around to the trunk and pops it. “Bought the boat off a friend of my dad’s, fixed it up and now all he worries about is dock fees. Though I bet he’ll have to relocate soon; dad used to pay for the slip and it's pricey.”

Frank chuckles lightly. “Seems about right, given the location.”

Laurel flashes him a quick grin, grabs her bag from the trunk. Frank takes his own, gives her a little frown, glancing significantly down at her bag. Her grin spreads wider and she lets him take the bag from her hand, hike it up on his shoulder, then following Laurel down the ramp onto the gently rocking dock.

She leads him through a warren of wooden docks, past more sailboats, speedboats, yachts than he can count until they get to a small, white-trimmed houseboat. It's a little ratty, paint peeling and yellowed, but from Frank’s admittedly untrained eye, it looks seaworthy enough, cozy enough.

Laurel fishes through Hector’s keys, finds something that she decides looks like his house key and slips it into a large, rusting padlock on the tiny door.

She pushes the door open, steps into the narrow, cluttered interior, stepping aside to let Frank in behind her. He drops their bags atop the thin, linoleum table, wincing as it wobbles dangerously.

“You think your brother has any food?” he asks, watching Laurel drop heavily onto the thinly stuffed plaid couch, ratty and fraying.

She leans her head against the back of the couch, closes her eyes and hums. “Chefs never have food.”

He chuckles, cracks open the fridge and peers inside. “Looks like you're right,” he mutters. “Looks like we’re screwed unless you want expired bologna and fruit cups for dinner.”

Laurel smiles thinly. “Bologna and fruit cups, of course. Because Hector’s seven.”

“Hey,” Frank quips crookedly, turning away from the fridge. “I love a good fruit cup.”

Laurel makes a face. “There are always too many pears. Pears are gross.”

He gives her a look, raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Really? How’d I miss that you hate pears?”

She shrugs, shoulders hitching up by her ears. “I don't buy pears and you don't notice.”

He laughs. “Must be true.”

“We’ll order something, skip the expired lunch meat. He didn't have any beer, did he?” Laurel asks, as she slips further into the couch. Frank wants to drape a blanket over her, let her wrap herself in layers of fabric and sleep off the rest of this horrible goddamn vacation. He’ll spend the rest of the night with one eye on the door, one eye on her, a knife or a bat held tightly in his fist, watching cautiously, for anything that might be coming after them.

“Couple spares,” he tells her after a long moment.

“Gotta make a liquor run with dinner I guess.”

“What’re you thinking for dinner then?” he asks, sinking into the couch beside her, sprawling heavy and exhausted, legs out straight.

“Soup,” she says instantly. “Or smoothies.”

“Oh,” he grits out. “Yeah. Right.”

Because well, yeah, it probably is going to fucking hurt for days every time she swallows, talks, breathes, thinks that she’d probably rather starve than eat pizza or a burger right now. Fuck, he thinks, just, fuck.

“You, uh, you want anything in particular?” Frank finally asks once he’s regained control of his voice. Laurel scoots closer, lets her body rest against his, her head coming to nest against his shoulder. She sighs heavily into his neck and Frank wraps an arm around her body, tugs her closer still, a little ribbon of panic easing somewhat as he feels the familiar weight of her body against his, reminds himself that she’s alive and safe and still Laurel.

“No,” she tells him. “Just nothing spicy if you’re doing soup, please.”

He wants to laugh, really, really he does, because Laurel passing up spice basically means it's the end of the world and well, if it's the end of the world he doesn't want to be sad about it. But the noise that emerges from his mouth, well, he’d be lying if he said it didn't sound more like a sob than anything else. And before Frank even realizes what's happened, before his brain has caught up to the rest of what's going on in his body, he’s heaving out these quick, choked sobs, can feel tears pricking the backs of his eyes for just an instant before he feels them sliding warm and quick against his cheeks before he’s even begun to try and stop them, hold them back.

Laurel must notice his shuddering gasps, or feel the tears against her hair, because she looks up, not quite startled, but certainly close. She looks into his eyes for a long moment, one hand against his cheek when he tries to turn away, avert his eyes from her.

“No,” she tells him softly, the pressure of her hand insistent, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I’m alright, Frank. It was bad and it's over and we made it through, ok? I’m alright.”

He nods, though he doesn't quite believe it.

“Frank,” she says again, voice going sharp. “You can't keep thinking about how bad it might’ve been. It wasn't and it's over.”  
She pulls back, angles her body towards his, takes his right hand in hers and places it against the center of her chest leaves it there for long moments, tightening her grasp on his wrist as he flinches, tries to pull away. “You feel all that?” she asks him softly, her other hand against his knee, soft and heavy anchoring him in place. “You feel it?”

He nods dumbly.

“What do you feel?”

“You,” is all he can say.

Laurel shakes her head slightly. “No, you feel my heartbeat? There, under your fingers?” her hand presses down, forcing his fingertips to feel the drumbeats of her heart beating a heavy, slow tattoo. “And you feel me breathing? Yeah?”

Frank nods again, feels the fear still catching in his throat.

“Then you know it's alright,” she tells him, leaving his hand against her chest, her own going up to stroke agains his beard, thumb tripping against the still sliding tears, the broken flesh at his cheek. “Yeah, he hurt me, but I’m ok. I’m still breathing. That's all that matters. Everything else I’ll get through. Eventually.”

“Even this?”

She nods, keeps her eyes fixed on his so Frank can see the truth in them, clear and blue and prefect. “Even this.”

He focuses then, on her breathing, on the steady thumps of her heart and not the darkening skin of her neck, the places where her flesh is swollen, puffy, still, or the red streaks of broken capillaries like lightening bolts against the whites of her eyes, the way her tongue seems thick and clumsy in her mouth and her voice, stretched thin and frayed. 

"No," she tells him. "Don't look away. Don't focus on only the good things, the undamaged things. Focus on the bad parts too. Because they mean I'm still ok. More than the good parts do. Here," she takes his hand, spreads his fingers along the curve of her throat, forcing his hand to wrap around her neck, instinctively lining his fingers up along the sickly blue-black patterns left by her father's hand.

"See," she whispers, and he feels the vibrations of her voice against his skin, the fluttering of her breath, the beats of her vocal cords, the soft pulse of blood coursing through her veins. "You can feel it, can't you, that I'm ok? The bad parts matter as much as the good, Frank, ok. And you cant ignore them, and I'm certainly not going to hide them. Not from you."

He nods, exhales slowly and does as she asks; looks, really looks at the damage caused by her father. Its not pretty, god, its not pretty and he can barely do it, but he tamps down on his fear and nausea and looks anyway. And she's right, despite the bruises, the swelling and the eyes that seem more red than anything, Laurel is still alive, still breathing, still fighting.

She doesn't say anything, but must see the fear recede from his eyes, because she smiles, small and thin, but a smile all the same. And then she kisses him, slow and sweet and there's none of the crushing, weighty grief he expects, its light and clear and warm and Frank lets himself sink into it, lets it cover him, surround him; the feeling of her lips against his, the feeling of her hand against his cheek, her breath steady against his, mixing with his. They kiss like honey, thick and slow and sweet, like golden summer sunlight, rich and heavy and slanting, and Frank can't even begin to untangle his love from his fear from his awe of her as his hand slips into her hair, tangles there.

“I love you,” she tells him, lips ghosting over his. “I love you, and you make me better.”

“I don't think anyone’s ever said that to me with a straight face,” he tells her, smirking at her because there’s something too raw, too honest in her voice.

She kisses him again, strokes her fingers across his forehead, along his hairline, smoothes the furrows, the lines of tension from his brow. “Doesn't mean it's not true. You make me stronger, Frank, and that's a good thing.”

His grin turns crooked. “I’m pretty sure if you get any stronger, or braver, you’ll be jumping in front of moving trains, stopping armed robberies or something.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, huffing slightly. “No way. Only excitement I want is on TV. Maybe in the courtroom. Maybe.”

“Bedroom?” he teases.

“Yeah,” she laughs, light and quick, kisses him fiercely. “That too.”

“You did promise me sex last night,” he reminds her.

She laughs again, rolls her eyes. “What was all that on the beach then?”

He huffs slightly, pouts. “Fine, fine.”

“But,” she adds, kisses him again, arms snaking around his neck. “I can make up for taking one for the team on the beach with some houseboat sex.”

Frank laughs. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Laurel shrugs. “Unless you don't want to make it a thing?”

“No,” he assures her. “I definitely want to make houseboat sex a thing.”

She grins. “But let's get dinner first, please.”

He nods. “So, soup or smoothie?”

“Just go pick up Chinese from somewhere,” she tells him. “Get me some wonton or egg drop soup. Something easy.”

“I can do that,” he says. “You wanna come?”

Laurel shakes her head, glances away from him. “No. I have something I need to take care of.”

“Laurel,” he begins, a low note of warning in his voice, because he can see something in her face, in the downward curve of her mouth, in her clouded eyes that suggests she is planning something else, that the thing she needs to take care of has something to do with her father, with Barrow, with trying to make a clean, sharp, permanent break with her past.

“Nothing dangerous,” she promises. “Just something I need to do. Remind my dad how dangerous I could be.”

“Laurel,” he says again, taking her hand.

“Really,” she tells him with a little laugh. “It’s not illegal either.”

“That doesn't make it a good idea,” he points out, though Frank sees the hard cast to Laurel’s eyes and knows his protests will be futile.

“That’s true,” she agrees. “But it is necessary.”

“Alright,” he concedes. “You know what’s the best Chinese place around here?”

“No idea.”

“Let's hope Yelp Miami doesn't let me down tonight,” he says, pulling out his phone and pulling up a list of local Chinese places.

He orders quickly; not really caring about the order, glancing at Laurel as he orders her wonton soup, seeing her little quirking smile.

“I’ll grab some beer too yeah?” he asks, getting to his feet slowly. “You need the car for whatever you’re doing?”

Laurel shakes her head quickly, hands him Hector’s car keys.

He flips the keys around on his hand on their key-ring, once, twice. “You sure you’re not coming?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Be safe,” he tells her.

Laurel nods again. “You too.”


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, i've started to get mad feels about being so close to the end of this fic, like I've basically been living in it's world since Halloween, which is honestly fucking crazy...and now its basically over.  
> Like, I've spent so much time with this fic, the idea of not writing/editing/thinking about it is kind of strange and sad. I'm probably gonna go through withdrawal once I post the last chapters and its all over...
> 
> I'm gonna be updating a little quicker from here on out, just cause it's my goal to get everything published by July 4. So, we'll see...

Frank follows his phone’s GPS to the Chinese restaurant, located in a dingy little strip mall beside the highway overpass. He finds a liquor store four doors down, goes in and grabs a case of beer, figures if they don't finish it off, they can leave it with Hector as a thank you gift for letting them crash on his couch.

Halfway back to the marina he spots it, a smoothie shack nestled between a gas station and a shuttered Red Lobster. He pulls up to the window, sees that it's still open and orders a mango blackberry smoothie, and then a strawberry banana one because he has a brief moment of panic when he thinks mango blackberry is too acidic for someone who is probably regretting even the necessity of breathing.

Laurel is gone when he gets back, off on whatever mission it is that she’s decided is so crucial. He frowns hard at the small little interior cabin of the houseboat, thinks hard about calling her, and instead just sticks the smoothies in the fridge, unloads the Chinese and cracks a beer.

He’s busy mixing his General Tso’s with his rice, halfway through his first beer when Frank hears steps echoing against the dock, recognizes Laurel’s footfalls, soft and determined.

He looks up at the gentle roll that comes when she steps onto the houseboat, tries to shrug off the tension from his shoulders so she doesn't see.

“Hey,” Laurel says as she ducks through the doorway, flashes Frank a slow, tentative smile. “Smells good.”

“Hope so,” he tells her, pushing back from the table and going to the fridge, pulling out both smoothies, and holding them out to her in offering.

She chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners, and her smile, though tired, exhausted, grows a little wider. “Thanks.”

“Always,” he tells her kissing her cheek softly as she takes the strawberry banana. “There’s beer too, if you want it.”

She shakes her head, moves past him, and that's when Frank senses it. He gives her a long look out of the corner of his eye, checks again to make sure he’s not imagining things, but no, he’s not.

She reeks of gasoline, of smoke and Frank feels his stomach tilt, feels the churning nausea rising in his stomach. He can remember the last time he caught a whiff of hot, acrid smoke clinging to Laurel’s clothes, her hair; hopes that whatever she’s done, it wasn't as bad as what happened that night.

“Laurel,” he begins, voice low, working around the lump in his throat.

“No,” she tells him, a low note of fear threading through her eyes, her voice, when she sees his stricken look. “No, it was nothing like that.”

He waits, leans back against the counter, wary and watchful. Whatever it is, he knows it's never good when you come back smelling like a bonfire. He thinks the look in Laurel’s eyes, too-wide and too-sharp suggests she’s done something royally stupid, that it's only now catching up to her that she may have poked the bear a little too sharply, may want to take it back, now, before it's too late.

“I needed to leave a message, but nothing like that, Frank, I promise.”

“Then what kind of message was it?” he asks, crossing him arms over his chest, waits for her answer, resists the temptation to step forward, to close the distance between them and take her into his arms.

“His boat,” she begins with a sigh, reluctance evident in every word. “The one I told Barrow about. It's docked close to here. I opened all the hatches in the cabin, the ones he uses to store the drugs, store people.”

She catches the look Frank can’t smother, shocked and angry and fearful, gives him a twisting eye roll; too-cocky by half, but that’s Laurel at her most cunning, secure in the knowledge of her ability to outplay anyone. “I didn't take anything. Left something, in fact,” she gives him a wicked little grin, the kind he usually loves, but this time it just makes his stomach sink, makes him cold and sad and tired. He wants to remind her of just how little this all resembles a game, just how dangerous her father is, but Frank’s pretty sure that if she doesn't know, or doesn't care, after today, he’s not going to be the one to convince her otherwise.

“Just a little jerrycan and a lighter,” she assures him. “No fires.”

His mouth twists, ugly and nearing anger. “Doesn't mean you’re not playing with it right now.”

Laurel takes a quick step back, mouth falling open slightly. “You don't know him, Frank,” she tells him. “To make this work, I have to remind him I’m dangerous too.”

“Didn't you just do that?” he asks, voice sharper than he intends, hands clutching the counter behind him to keep them still. “And didn't you just tell me that he’s a goddamn bomb you need to run from? This doesn't seem like running, babe.”

She sighs, heavy, echoing, like a shot, a slammed door. “To continue the metaphor, Frank, it's like chucking a grenade over my shoulder as I run. Won't do much damage, but I’ll remind him that I could.”

“Why?” he demands, keeping his voice level even though he’d like nothing more than to start yelling at her. “Why’d you need to do that?”

“To give him something to consider the next time he wonders if maybe he let me go too easily,” she hisses and it hits him like a sucker punch to the gut, stealing his breath, stealing all his anger.

“Is that what you think?” Frank finally asks. “That everything today was for nothing?”

She shakes her head quickly, bites her lip harshly. “No. No. But he doesn't like leaving enemies out in the world, certainly doesn't like loose ends. It's only a matter of time before he wonders if maybe he made the wrong choice and should tie that loose end up. I just needed something to remind him why that's not a good idea. Something that he’ll see a few weeks from now when things have calmed down, settled, and he starts getting cocky again.”

“There’s no guarantee you’re ever gonna be free of him, is there?”

Laurel smiles, small, tentative and brave. “No. But I’m trying to give myself the best shot at it.”

He nods, lets his hands fall to his sides, no longer clutching at the counter.

“I know it doesn't look like it, ok, but that's what I’m doing. This isn’t revenge, or trying to prove I can outsmart him.”

“It's just punching up and hoping you land something hard enough he’ll think twice before he comes after you again,” Frank finishes for her, running a hand across his beard, sliding away from the counter towards her.

She nods, smiles softly at him, pleased he understands. “Yeah,” she sighs, steps forward into his arms.

“Your dad sucks.”

Laurel snorts into his chest. “He definitely does.”

“Honestly,” Frank quips. “Now I know why Annalise never phases you.”

She rests her chin against his chest, looks up at him. “She’s a lot smarter than him and probably just as ruthless, but Annalise’s body count has nothing on my dad’s.”

“Plus, she’s mostly just manipulative,” he adds, one hand coming up to press, hard, between her shoulder blades.

Laurel nods, steps back. “No more of this,” she says, turning away from him, turning towards the couch and sinking down into it. “Not tonight.”

He hands Laurel her container of lukewarm soup, joins her with his Chinese and a fresh beer.

“This is basically how I was hoping we’d spend Christmas before you brought up Florida,” he tells her once they’ve finished most of the food, gone limp and sleepy against the overstuffed couch.

Her brow crinkles slightly as she frowns, puzzled.

“I just wanted to eat cheap takeout with you. Maybe get a little tipsy, convince you to make out with me.”

She chuckles, skewers him with raised eyebrows, both derisive and affectionate all at once. “Really? _That’s_ your winter holiday fantasy?”

Frank shrugs, takes a long sip of beer. “I’m a simple man with simple tastes.”

“Well, luckily, I think I’ll be willing to accommodate you,” she tells him, lifting the bottle from his fingers, taking her own long sip, a teasing smile on her lips.

They pass the bottle back and forth until it's empty, shoulders jostling and hands tangling as their bodies slide closer together on the couch until Laurel is practically sitting in his lap. Frank thinks they’re both seeking comfort from the other’s body, reassurance that everything is ok, that they're both safe and real.

When the bottle is empty Laurel stands, sighs and rolls her shoulders until they crack and pop, rolling any lingering tension from her back, her neck. She extends her hand to Frank, pulls him to his feet.

“C’mon,” she tells him, ducking out of the cabin and heading out into the night. “I promised you a sweet view.”

“Want me to bring the beer?” he calls after her.

She makes a noise that he interprets as an affirmative, grabs two more beers and follows her onto the boat’s deck.

She’s nowhere to be found when he steps out onto the deck, seemingly swallowed by the darkness.

“Laurel?” he calls out, feeling foolish, feeling stupid that there’s a little lurch of fear and panic arcing through his stomach when he can't see her.

“Up front,” she answers, voice faint.

Frank follows her voice to the bow of the boat. He finds her sitting against the edge of the boat, legs hanging over the water, kicking faintly against the murky blackness below. He slips off his shoes, hands her a beer and sits beside her, wrapping his fingers softly against her wrist.

He opens his own beer, holds it out to knock it against hers. Laurel gives him a wry little grin, taps her bottle against his.

“I told you it was a good view right?” she asks, nodding out into the darkness. And yeah, Frank’s got to admit it's a pretty great view; long miles of dark water spreading out all around them and then, in the distance, the warm, glowing lights of downtown Miami rising like beacons, humming and churning with life.

“It's not bad,” Frank agrees.

“This more like what you were expecting when I suggested Christmas in Florida?”

“Yeah, sorta,” he says chuckling. “Palm trees and rum and ogling you in next to nothing.”

“Hey,” she tells him, leaning into his side, lips ghosting against his shoulder. “I came through at the end.”

He gives her a look. “I don't see any palm trees, I have no rum and you’re certainly not naked.”

Laurel rolls her eyes at him, grins affectionately. “You were the one that bought the booze, can’t blame me for that. And there’s like three palm trees out in the parking lot.”

“So what you’re telling me,” he asks, cocky smirk slipping onto his face, nose and lips and beard nuzzling against her neck. “Is that the only thing left to make my vacation perfect is for you to get naked?”

“Really?” she teases, biting her lip softly, setting the beer bottle down next to her carefully, deliberately. “The only thing?”

“Can't hurt,” Frank tells her, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Laurel grins, grabs the hem of her top and slowly pulls it over her head, eyes never leaving his.

“You just gonna sit there or are you gonna give me a hand?” she asks, grinning wide, reaching behind her to unhook the clasp of her bra, letting it slip down her shoulders. Her nipples, small and pink, pucker in the cool night air and Frank lowers his head to one of her breasts, flicking his tongue across the little bud, suckling at the soft flesh there, worshipping her, the simple fact that she’s alive, that she chooses him, loves him.

Laurel gasps, hand threading into his hair, urges him closer, and he keeps his mouth locked against her skin. His hands slip down to her waist, popping the button on her jeans. Laurel leans back, Frank's body covering hers, pressing her down onto the cold deck, her hips framing his. He begins drawing her zipper down, slow, slow, slow, lips going back to her breast, teeth running along her skin until she shudders. She squirms, shimmies and eventually kicks her pants off, Frank’s hand pushing aside the material of her panties, slipping his fingers against her entrance, against the gathering moisture there.

“How’s that for giving you a hand?” he rasps into her ear, teeth tugging on the lobe as his thumb trips over her clit.

Laurel looks up, meets his eyes and grins wickedly. “Frank,” she demands. “Get naked.”

“Wow,” Frank says, sitting back, taking a half offended tone as he teases her with a lopsided smile. “Treating me like a piece of meat here, babe.”

She rolls her eyes, fingers already working at loosening his tie as she kisses him fiercely, teeth pulling at his lower lip. “So tell me to stop.”

“Never,” he answers, hands moving to assist her, working at the buttons of his waistcoat.

She pulls his tie loose, pushes his waistcoat open and slides it down his shoulders, fingers tugging his shirt until it rucks, untucks. “Why the hell do you wear so many clothes?” she grumbles, teeth edging over his pulse point.

“Because I like what it does to you,” Frank teases. “Having to jump through hoops to get laid.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, her fingers stilling, running kisses along his jawline before she pulls back, raises an eyebrow. “Let's see how much you enjoy getting rid of all that on your own. You’ve got thirty seconds to get naked or all you get to do is watch.”

“Hey,” he protests. “What about making up for beach sex?”

He’s not really paying attention, too focused on the little whines she’s making high in her throat as he moves his hand to her breast. But then she stills his hand, firm pressure against his wrist stopping his movements. “Twenty now, Frank,” she gasps lazily, moving his hand to the side away from her body.

He resists for a moment, lips ghosting over the soft skin between her breasts, but Laurel pulls harshly at his hair, turns her body from him and he realizes she’s serious. And well, damn it, because as much as Frank likes watching her, he likes fucking her a lot more, likes being the one to make her whine and beg and gasp. He’s a smug bastard like that and he knows it. More to the point, Laurel knows it too, knows he won't let her give him, give in to, that ultimatum without a fight.

So he complies, fingers scrambling at the buttons of his shirt, at the clasp on his belt, kicking off his pants. His pants and boxers slip off with a loud clatter, and he idly hopes he hasn’t pushed them off the boat entirely. He’s halfway through the buttons on his shirt, already trying to pull it down his arms, where, predictably, it gets stuck so that he wastes precious seconds until he remembers to unbutton his cuffs. Frank’s got no idea if Laurel’s timing him, actually counting down or is just trying to speed him up; doesn’t think he’d put it past her to actually do it.

“Very good,” Laurel tells him once he’s naked. One hand slides along his hipbone as she leans in to meet his lips with hers, slowly, languidly tangling her tongue with his.

“I aim to please,” he teases, hands going to her ass, pressing her closer.

“You know,” she breathes, pulling back slightly and fixing him with a wicked smirking grin. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

He chuckles lightly, one hand slipping back between their bodies, sliding her panties off her hips, then teasing her, not quite touching where she wants him but stroking, lazy and slow across her entrance. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

She laughs, breathy and light, scraping her teeth along his collarbone until Frank has to pull back, the feeling of her touch too much for him.

He just watches her, takes in her body, breath catching. “You’re beautiful,” he tells her. And she is, even battered and bruised, even exhausted and sallow-skinned in the strange yellow dock lights; Laurel is beautiful to him and he loves her, beyond words, beyond reason.

She looks up at him, sharply, surprised at the shift in his tone. Laurel blinks, smiles slow and shy, eyes bright. She extends one hand to him, tugging him closer, her other hand slipping to his cheek, soft and gentle as she kisses him.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeats when they pull apart, resting his forehead against hers. “And I love you.”

She holds his gaze, stroking her hand through the hair at his temples. “I love you and you're _mine_ ,” she tells him, fierce and sharp.

He goes to kiss the line of her jaw, the soft skin at her neck, her collarbone, but flinches, pulls back, suddenly cold, suddenly remembering.

Laurel tugs at his hair, feeling the shifting tension in his body, the bursting stiffness in his touch. “Hey,” she says, stern, insistent, forcing his eyes to hers, little scowl pulling at her lips. “Don't. You're not gonna break me. And you won't hurt me.” Her hand goes to the short, fine hairs at the back of his neck, pulls at them hard, almost painfully, forcing his lips back down to her neck. “You’re not like him,” she insists. “I know you’d never hurt me. Don't treat me like you will.”

“I,” he gasps out, his own breath going tight as though he’s got a hand pressed tight against his windpipe. “I could though. You know I could.”

“Of course I know,” Laurel tells him frankly. “But you _won't_. I know you won't.”

“Why?”

“That’s easy,” she answers simply. “There are thousands of ways you could hurt me. All the time. But you don't. You choose not to. Because you love me.”

He nods. “I do. I love you,” he affirms, vows really.

She bites at his ear, tugs gently until he hisses. “So, Frank, love me,” she whispers as her hand slips down, slips around his cock, stroking him gently, her hand loose around him, going so, so maddeningly slow. Her other hand is still threaded through his hair and Frank lets his mind go blank, lets his lips ghost over her throat, lets himself believe that he won't hurt her. She has faith in him, believes that he is good, worthy of her, so he will simply have faith in her, that she’s telling him the truth when she says that he's not capable of hurting her.

He hears Laurel’s breath stutter unevenly, mixes his teeth against her throat before he can second guess himself as Laurel continues to pump him languidly. She gasps and Frank stills, flinches.

“No,” she whispers. “No, don't stop.”

“Good pain?” he asks, tongue soothing over the path of his teeth.

“Good pain,” Laurel agrees, nails skittering over his shaft as she strokes him. “Right?” she teases as his hips stutter forward, craving more contact.

“Yeah,” he breathes, because honestly, he can’t summon anything more eloquent, not when he’s hard and growing harder every second, not when her small little hand is running over him, when her other hand is pressing his lips to her neck, her throat; when short breathy moans are slipping from her mouth like invocations.

He moves his mouth down to her breast, teeth tripping over the soft skin there, then swirling his tongue over the puckered skin, over the stiff little peak of her nipple. She gasps again, throaty and low, hands urging him closer, urging him on. He nips again at her breast, runs his hand over the curving skin, placing a kiss to the smooth space in the center of her chest, his beard rasping across her skin, setting goosebumps bursting like fireworks.

Laurel tugs at his shoulders, urges him back up her body, meets his lips with her own. A hand slides against his hip, nails pricking long trails along his hipbone until her hand wraps around his cock again.

“Antsy, aren't you,” he chuckles, though when Laurel strokes her thumb against the head of his cock his laugh goes choked, strangled.

“Aren't _you_?” she challenges as his hips trip forward, press into hers, as Laurel spreads her hips wider, welcoming his body, his cock teasing at her entrance. They both gasp at the feel of him so close, the feel of him slipping against her dripping folds.  
Laurel kisses him again, fierce and messy, tongue tangling with his, sliding over his. His hips stutter forward, and he slides inside her, just an inch, Laurel moaning, high and breathy. Her hands urge him closer, her hips canting into his to take him deeper, her walls tightening against his cock, every inch of her body craving more of him.

Everything within him urges Frank to slide forward, bury himself in her welcoming heat but he resists, pulls out to tease her further. She’s so wet now, practically dripping, hot and sticky and coating her thighs, coating the head of his cock, as he slides against her folds. Laurel makes a sound like a whine, mouths a little breathy curse as her nails drive into his shoulder blades. He thrusts forward again, slips inside her a little further as her hips rise to meet his. Again he pulls back, pulls out as Laurel hisses, tries to keep him inside her, shuts her eyes tight as the head of his cock brushes against her entrance, teases at her clit.

He lets his cock run across her clit until her eyes crack open, meets Frank’s gaze, deep clear blue pulling him in until he doesn't think he can look away.

“I love you,” she whispers, lips meeting his desperately but her eyes never leaving his. “I love you. I love you.”

His hips thrust forward then, burying himself inside her as far as he can go, until all he feels is her, surrounding him, her body tightening against his, her eyes, her body, drawing him in.

Frank knows there’s a desperation in both of them, something grieving and frayed that craves the reassurance of being alive, being loved. And he knows it would be all too easy for this to be despairing, rushed and frantic; a quick, heady panicked fleeting rush of pleasure born of fear that sets them wanting to feel alive, feel something good rather than creeping pain or fear. So instead he focuses on the pleasure building low in his stomach and goes slow with long, deep thrusts, tries to savor the feeling of her body around his, to overwhelm the fear, the pain, all the hurt with pleasure, with his love for her, replace the past four days with only this.

He still sees the thick, dark bruises along the column of Laurel’s throat, still sees the red pinpricks staining her eyes, still feels the thin raised line of the stitches on her palm as her hands grasp his shoulders, but he no longer really notices, really cares; all he can see is the bright, clear blue of her irises, sinks into them, sees the pleasure building in Laurel blow her pupils wide.

He moves with slow, unhurried thrusts, steady and deep, Laurel’s hips rising to meet his, matching the motions of his body stroke for stroke. Frank reaches down to where their bodies join to stroke against her clit, setting a little whine bursting from her lips.

He can tell just from her eyes alone that Laurel’s close, they start to slip closed, roll back, dark pupils practically swallowing the blue. Her breath skitters, sharp and unsteady but Frank doesn't increase his pace, doesn't increase the pressure against her clit, just continues, slow and deep until the mounting pleasure in his body, the fluttering tightness of her walls sets his pace faster, going erratic, desperate and faltering. He can feel desire building low and harsh, and it's like the spell has been broken, the dam cracks wide and the pleasure overwhelms his brain. He can feel nothing beyond her walls tightening against him and as Laurel comes with a sharp little cry, long and high, Frank follows after her, spilling himself deep inside her with a low growl. He comes like the tide, rising, rising, rising and then falling slowly, gently back; steady and sweet and perfect.

After a long minute, Laurel reaches up to him, one hand against his cheek, kisses him soft and warm before he slips out of her. He lies next to her, staring at the deep black sky, waits for his breath to steady, for the last lingering bursts of pleasure fade from his mind. She pillows her head against his arm, fingers stroking against his bicep, breath still coming in sharp, uneven pants.

“I love you,” he tells her just as Laurel whispers the same thing into the blackness, their voices overlapping, tones mixing together; high and low, soft and gruff. He hears her little huffing laugh beside him, hears her repeat it again as she takes his hand in hers, threading their fingers together.

He listens to her breathing as it steadies, listens to the sound of the water lapping against the boat’s hull, the weak little breeze whistling across the water, cooling their heated bodies, turns his face to the side and watches Laurel. She must sense his gaze, because she turns as well, meets his eyes. She smiles, open and raw, leans forward half an inch and presses her lips against his.

Frank slips his hand against her back, siding against her heated flesh, slick with sweat, kisses her again.

“I’m so happy I know you,” he tells her. “That you let me in your life.”

Her eyes slip closed, just briefly, and he fears for a long moment that he’s said something wrong. But when her eyes open again they’re big and blue and shining and she’s smiling, slow and soft and sweet.

“I don't know how you could see it,” Laurel whispers finally. “See what we could be, even at the beginning. But I’m glad you did. I’m so glad you knew how much I could love you, that you kept believing in it even when I couldn't.”

“I didn't,” he answers honestly, gruffly, rests his forehead against hers. “But I could see you and all I knew was that I had to know you, like some kinda compulsion. Like I couldn't live with myself if I didn't know you.”

Frank thinks he sees something like tears start to form behind her eyes, they’re glassy, shining and dark, flickering in the dim yellow light. “And all I did was try and resist that feeling, till it was impossible. How could I have ever wanted to miss out on this?”

He smiles gently at her, answers her with all the honesty he can muster. “Cause it would've been easy and safe, simple. It's easy to want that, to be scared of things that seem impossible.”

“We’re not impossible Frank,” she tells him, voice soft, laced with sleep, her eyes slipping closed as she nuzzles her cheek against his shoulder. “We were inevitable.”


	57. Chapter 57

He must fall asleep too, must let his eyes close, thinking it will be just for a moment, but when he wakes he knows it's more hours than minutes that have passed. There's something heavier to the darkness, thick and inky, and the wind has picked up, no longer gentle. Frank’s eyes tick open, and he turns his head slightly to where Laurel’s still pillowed against his arm.

“Hey,” she murmurs, brushing her lips against his arm.

“Hey,” he says. “How long was I out?”

“Dunno,” she answers, yawning wide. “Maybe an hour, little longer.”

“How long were you out?”

He can feel her grin in the blackness. “Little less.”

Frank rolls his eyes, knows she can't see. “Liar.”

He knows she didn't sleep more than fifteen or twenty minutes, rarely manages to nap longer than that, even now, even exhausted and pulled ragged. Out of the corner of her eye he sees her grin, and he knows he’s right.

“Ready to sleep for real?” he asks.

“Nah,” Laurel tells him as she sits up, pulls her knees to her chest and looks out over the water. “You bought all that beer. No sense in leaving it for my brother.”

Frank chuckles, reaches out and runs his hand along her hipbone. “Want me to go grab more?”

Laurel nods and Frank stands, pads back into the cabin and grabs the entire case. By the time he emerges again she’s slipped his shirt over her shoulders, buttoned only the middle two buttons so that it gapes open at the neck, giving him a tempting, teasing glimpse at the swell of her breasts.

He sinks to the ground next to her. “What?” he teases as his lips move to the open collar of her shirt, sliding against her pulse point. “You worried the neighbors are gonna ogle you?”

“Actually,” she tells him, laughing sharply. “I was cold.”

“True,” he admits. “For south Florida it's damn chilly.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “It's not the tropics, Frank.”

“Close enough,” he tells her as he pulls on his boxers, hands Laurel a beer and taking one of his own.

“You know,” she tells him once her beer is halfway finished. “You wanted rum and palm trees and bikinis. This is how I wanted to spend Christmas.”

“With beer and palm trees and mostly naked?”

She chuckles. “Beer and a boat and you.”

“Beer and boat and bae?” he teases.

“Something like that,” she scoffs, knocking his shoulder lightly with hers. “Toldja we should’ve gone to the Keys. Could’ve had this the whole time.”

“Yeah,” he says, because he’s not sure he can disagree with her. They probably should’ve fucking gone to the Keys, avoided her family entirely. He probably should've just fucking trusted her that they were heading into a disaster. She probably would’ve come out of the weekend unscathed, uninjured and unbroken, no worse for wear beyond maybe a wicked hangover, maybe some light sunburn. But it's over now, they’ve gotten through it and he’s not going to think about it anymore, because he can’t change what happened. And maybe it's good, maybe it's for the best, because she’s gotten herself free, negotiated a peace that may let her live to old age, untouched by her father’s corrupting influence. Maybe not. But maybe. “But we’re making up for it now.”

Laurel grins. “We’re certainly trying,” she says, taking a long sip of her beer.

“So,” he begins, leaning back on his elbows, nodding out towards the city rising up from the darkness of the water in the distance. “That’s Miami, huh?”

She nods. “That’s Miami.”

“You think we could swim there?”

She barks with laughter. “No way.”

“Doesn't look that far,” he says with a little shrug.

“It's not,” she tells him. “But that’s before you factor in alligators and boats. And probably the cops too.”

He laughs. “On second thought, let's stay put.”

“Good call,” Laurel chuckles and grins around her beer bottle, knocks her toes against his shin gently. “Though when Hector shows up tomorrow you can try to convince him. I’ll stay behind to bail you two out.”

“Is this what you consider future brother in law bonding?” he asks with a crooked little grin.

“With you two?” Laurel answers, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, probably.”

“Can we just stick to, I dunno, cooking or something? Top Chef it? Let you play Padma Lakshmi?”

“You sure you’d prefer that to a night in lockup?” she asks, grinning wryly. “Hector’s pretty intense about his food.”

“I am too,” he points out.

Laurel nods seriously. “That's true. You might even give my brother a run for his money.”

“You should invite him up,” Frank blurts out before he thinks too much about it. “To Philly.”

Laurel’s face goes still, blank for a sudden second. There’s a question, a little kernel of something like doubt or maybe fear in her eyes. Frank cannot begin to understand where it's coming from, why she suddenly looks worried, tentative, nervous even.

“You want Hector around?” she asks, voice small.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Not to live with us or anything, but for a week, a weekend, yeah.”

“Yeah?” she presses, looking up at Frank with an urgency, a intensity he’s still confused by.

“’Course,” he tells her frankly. “He’s a mess, but I like him. More than that, you love him, why wouldn't I want him around? Especially because he probably has a million embarrassing stories about baby Laurel.”

Laurel grins shyly. “He is a mess. But he tries. So thank you.”

“For what?” Frank asks, still completely confused.

“For seeing Hector the way I do. For wanting him at all.”

Oh, Frank thinks, oh, right. Because Hector's been ignored, overlooked, probably for most of Laurel’s life, demeaned. And while Laurel’s taken their father’s attention, his derision and his expectations and his anger, Hector mostly just gets overlooked unless he get furious, gets loud. Laurel’s really the only one who sticks up for him, who wants him for more than a few minutes at a time. And while, yeah, Hector can be a little much, completely frustrating and hurt and lashing out at all the wrong times, all the wrong people, Frank knows how fiercely he loves his sister.

And Frank wants Laurel to have that in her life, wants her to have her family still, in whatever way she can, wants people to love her as fiercely as he does, wants Hector to have her back, protect her the way she’s been protecting him for damn near a decade. Because Laurel needs that, needs to know that she’s worthy, that she’s important and loved and that she doesn't always have to look out for herself, and everyone around her too, can rely on other people if she needs it.

She’s learned, slowly, to rely on Frank, knows now he has her back and will stick by her, but he thinks that for all she’s protected her brother, he owes it to her to protect her now. And maybe Hector needs to have someone rely on him for once, needs someone to put their trust in him, think he’s capable of more than screwing up, deflecting tension by pulling someone else into the firing line.

“I want him around if you do,” Frank tells her. “You put up with my crazy family, so if all I gotta do is hang out with your brother, I think I’m getting the better deal.”

“Yeah?” Laurel asks, raising her eyebrows. “Your family’s pretty awesome.”

He grins. “They are. And they love you. Because you're awesome.”

“Or because I’ve put up with you for more than six months.”

“I’ve dated people besides you for longer than six months,” he protests with a laugh.

“Really?” Laurel asks raising her eyebrows sarcastically. “Someone made it to seven?”

“Someone must've,” he says with a shrug and a laugh.

“I’m either doing something very right or very wrong then,”she tells him, reaching over and curling her fingers along his bicep, squeezing just for a second.

“Why not both?” he asks with a wicked smirk, leaning forward and kissing along the open edge of her shirt, down to the gaping collar and her breasts.

He slips the buttons open, presses her back onto the deck and kisses a line down her body, breasts to sternum to stomach and then even lower, ghosting over her folds, breath hot against her entrance.

“Hey,” she whispers, as he slides his teeth along her hipbone. “Stop.”

Frank looks up, resting his chin against her thigh and he must not be able to contain the hurt in his eyes because Laurel’s face suddenly turns apologetic.

“No, no,” she begins. “Not like that. Just, it's cold. And I think we’ve given the neighbors enough of a show.”

“Really?” he chuckles low in his throat, nips once at her inner thigh, lightly, but enough to sting. “I think the show’s only just getting started.”

Laurel laughs, but the sound catches in her throat as he nips closer to her center, turns into a deep, breathy sigh, somewhere approaching a moan. He chuckles low against her, because he knows how much the idea of fucking where they can get caught turns her on, where they might be seen or heard. He gets it, he does, the little thrill that comes from the risk of everyone knowing, everyone seeing and he gets why it works so well for Laurel; quiet, reserved Laurel who hides behind silence and other people’s ignorance, gets why getting off where someone might actually notice turns her on. And well, despite her token protests, Frank’s all to happy to oblige that kink.

He lets his tongue dart out, tasting her, lapping slowly at her folds, at the moisture that gathers there. He can taste himself too, faintly, on his tongue and he knows it shouldn't, really really shouldn’t, but tasting his come on her sends a rush of desire shooting through him until he can barely see straight. It does every single time, and Laurel knows it, knows how debauched and utterly fucking hot he finds it when he’s sucking at her clit and he tastes himself, only him, mixed with the familiar taste that is only Laurel. It’s, God, it's everything, seeing, tasting the evidence of her desire, for him; how wet she is for him, how much she wants him. How much she still wants him, after he already fucked her until she came, hard and fast, how much she craves him still, can't get enough of him, wants him again, even before the last of him has left her body. He just loves that she wants him, that he can reduce her to a shaking, wordless thing, loves the taste of her, the taste of them; the evidence of that craving.

And Laurel knows it. So her hand slides down, tangles in his hair and presses his face into her, shifts her hips to give him more contact while he nips at her clit, works his tongue over it, over her folds until she’s breathing only in short little pants and Frank’s rock hard and straining against the fabric of his boxers.

One hand slides up her body to palm hard, at her breast, slide over the nipple and run his nail along the sensitive underside. Laurel whines high and gasping, her hips rising, lifting, craving more.

He smirks wide against her center, chuckles low as he sucks her clit into his mouth, teeth nipping at the bundle of nerves and his tongue devouring her.

“Frank,” she moans, stopping his movements with a sharp tug at the hair on his temples. “Get up here.”

He stills, slides up her body, kisses her slow and deep, hand running over her breast as he goes.

Laurel flips their positions, tugs his boxers down, presses down on his chest as her small little hand slips over his cock, pumps him steadily. Frank’s fingers go to her hips, pressing hard against her hipbone, as she positions herself, sinking slowly down onto him, taking him in up to the hilt as they both sigh. Frank clenches his jaw, closes his eyes as the pleasure courses through him, arcing like lightening, hot and fast and almost painful. She begins moving over him, rolling her hips slowly at first, achingly slow, her walls clenching around him. Frank’s hand goes to her breast, thumbs across her nipple, rolling it between his fingers, setting Laurel’s hips stuttering, riding him in an increasingly dizzying pace.

Her hand slips down to where their bodies are joined, pads of her fingers rubbing furious circles over her clit, mouth falling open and little pants echoing through the night air like prayers.

Her body bows forward, hair spilling down like a dark silk curtain between them, shielding them and all Frank can see is her, the heavy lidded blue of her eyes, the bead of sweat that drips down her hairline, her cheek, across the curve of her jaw.

Frank shifts their bodies, sits up, one hand braced against the deck, Laurel tucked into his lap, and wraps his arm around her back while she continues to ride him, lips seeking his out. The tongues tangle, wildly, and Laurel bites his bottom lip, tugs hard enough that the pain momentarily overwhelms the pleasure before surging back, twice as powerful, insistent, pounding at his brain.

Her hands come up, clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping harsh lines down his back, pace growing frantic, hurried. He shifts slightly, changing the angle at which their bodies join, hitting a place deep inside her that causes Laurel to mewl, again and again, with each stroke. Her walls begin to flutter around him, around his cock, the feeling so tight and the pressure building inside him, insatiable. Laurel’s hips, thighs are tightening around him, her pace stuttering, as her cries come higher, sharper, as her orgasm rips through her.

Frank lasts a few more quick, deep thrusts before he comes with a growl, teeth scraping hard against her collarbone, stifling the sound against her skin, slick and damp with sweat.

She keeps her arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeps him held tight against her body as the last tendrils of pleasure arc through her, as he softens inside her, kisses the side of her neck, sloppy and warm.

“If anyone was watching I’d say we put on a pretty good show,” Frank growls with a low chuckle.

“Pretty good end to a pretty shit vacation,” Laurel agrees, hand stroking over his hairline, down to his jaw, her lips following the path of her fingers.

“View’s as good as promised though,” Frank smirks, hand running slowly against the swell of her breast.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, soft and breathy, eyeing him with a wicked little grin. “Not bad on my end either.”

He chuckles again, sucking low at her collarbone, a sudden compulsion to mark her there, mark her with an angry red bruise to compete with the marks left by her father’s hands, give her a bruise left by pleasure, love rather than pain and anger. He wants, tomorrow, to see only the bruises left by his lips, to be able to overlook the others, the darker blue-black bruises, and see only the strawberry red blotches he marks against her neck, her collarbone.

Laurel must feel the same because her hand threads through his hair, keeps Frank’s lips against her neck, sucking, nipping until the skin there is flushed and hot, until Laurel is panting in pleasure. He knows it won't erase what happened, knows it can’t even cover it up, disguise it, but maybe it’ll make things easier, make the catch in her throat a little less painful when it comes.

“You’re gonna be the death of me someday,” he tells her then, laughing low and teasing.

“Maybe,” she says, lips hot against his ear. “But I’d rather keep you around a while.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to wrap things up...

He doesn't know what he expected, doesn't know why he expected it would be ok, that Laurel would be able to brush things off with more ease than Frank himself could, but it still shocks Frank when her nightmare wakes him. She’s crying and gasping and making these high strangled noises like her father’s hand is pressed, unyielding, against her windpipe, choking all the air from her lungs.

It takes Frank a long, long disorienting moment to even figure out where he is, let alone what the hell’s going on, probably half a dozen beats where he sits up and looks around uncomprehending before he realizes they're on Hector’s shitty futon and that Laurel is beside him, curled tight and whimpering keening and terrified.

“Hey,” he whispers, stroking a hand along her arm, shoulder to elbow, applying slight pressure with his thumb. “Laurel, wake up.”

She just cries out again, twists away from his grip, folding even further into herself, something sharp rattling through her chest. Frank can see the warm streaks of her tears, glowing silver in the moonlight against her cheeks.

“Laurel,” he calls again, louder, taking one of her wrists and pulling it gently away from her body. “Wake up.”

Her eyes blink open then, wide and blue and terrified. She recoils from his touch, pulls away and slides quickly to the other end of the bed, breath coming in ragged, gasping pants. She sits up, one hand grasping hard against her chest, her throat, over her heart, scoring dark red lines into her skin. She scoots back quickly, draws her knees up to her chest. The other threads through her hair, tugging harshly at the back of her neck, bowing her body even further into itself, her arm trying to shield herself from something, anything, everything, trying to turn herself small, invisible. She doesn't have to say a thing but he knows she woke to the memory of long fingers digging into her throat, of her father’s snarl and bared teeth.

“Laurel, hey,” he says, louder now. “It's ok. You’re ok. Breathe alright?” 

He gets to his knees, shifts slightly closer, but doesn't touch her, doesn't reach out. She takes a long, shuddering breath, looks up, though her hand still clings to her neck, and her shoulders fold in, going small, protecting herself.

“Frank?” she asks slowly, face crumpling, looking stricken, her hand wrapping loosely against her throat.

“Yeah,” he replies, keeps his voice soft, even. “I’m here.”

“He fucking shot you,” she gasps, voice broken and keening.

“No, no,” Frank assures her in a whisper, turns his face so that she can see the little divots in his skin left by the wooden shrapnel. “I'm fine. He didn't hurt me.”

“He was going to kill me.”

He nods, swallows hard to keep his voice steady. “But he didn't. You're alive.”

She nods, slowly, like she’s taking in, processing his words, accepting them as truth. There’s long, long beats of silence while she holds his eyes, watches him, relaxing by degrees, like the slow, slow thaw of a glacier. Her breath is harsh and ragged and he thinks he sees her shoulders shake, in fear, in grief, he’s not even close to knowing. “I’m alive,” she says finally, tentative and half like a question, like she’s trying to convince herself, taking her hand away from her neck, unfolding her body in slow, halting movements, her breath still harsh and rough, but coming even now, no longer stuttering. “I’m alive.”

He nods, reaches out to take her elbow and something in his heart unclenches as she allows him to wrap his fingers around her arm, doesn't shy away from his touch. “You're alive. And I am too.”

She smiles, slowly, tentatively and Frank reaches out with his other hand, swipes his knuckle gently across her cheeks, through the path of her tears, follows with his lips, ghosting over her skin. Laurel leans into his touch and for just a moment, no longer than it takes him to blink, Frank lets himself believe that maybe things will be ok, that maybe things aren't as bad as he fears.

“You're strong and you’re brave and you’re amazing,” he tells her. “But it's ok if you're not sometimes.”

Laurel leans forward, leans into his arms and Frank’s hands come up, stroke through her hair, feeling her breath, steady and sure now against his skin. “I love you,” she says, voice so soft he has to strain to hear it. He’s not sure she even intended him to hear it. “Thank you for bringing me back.”

“Always,” he answers.

“You might have to do it more often than you signed up for,” she says after long, long minutes, pulling back and the thumb of her left hand strokes over her lips nervously, teeth catching on the scarred flesh there. “At least for a little while. You up to that?”

Frank takes her hand, draws it away from her lips, and bends to run his own lips against the constellations of dark blue-black bruises scarring the narrow column of her throat. “I’ll do anything you need me to do,” he whispers against her jaw. “For however long it takes.”

“And if there’s never enough time?” she asks, voice like a sigh; sad and small and defeated, like she truly believes that nothing; not time, not distance, not her own fierce desire for it to be over, fixed, will set her right, will lessen the damage done to her by Jorge Castillo. That she knows, even as the bruises fade, the scars will remain, deep and hidden under her skin like land mines, waiting for the weight of unexpected footfalls.

“Then that's ok too,” Frank tells her. “And if it's not a problem I can solve, I’ll find someone who can. And if it's not something solvable, I’ll do whatever it takes so that you can at least live with things.”

Laurel hums low in her throat and Frank watches a few more tears leave shining silver tracks along her cheeks, though her eyes are clear, bright. “It might not be for a while, but I’ll be ok. I will. I know I will.”

“I know you will too,” he agrees. “You’re too stubborn not to come out the other side of this.”

“Fuck my dad,” she says vehemently, as she smiles tentatively, soft and shy, the corners of her mouth pulling up, twisting. Something tightens deep in his chest, a dull ache getting duller as she smiles, as Frank tries to contemplate how Laurel is smiling, can summon the strength to feel more than terror, can actually put one foot in front of the other and force herself to move on, move forward, feel anything good. “I’ve been through worse. I’m not gonna let what he did hurt me more than it should.”

He nods, fingers tangling in her tousled hair as he lets that ragged, hurting part of himself fade in importance, lets himself try to forget it. “See,” he chuckles. “Stubborn as hell.”

Frank feels her smile against his neck, warm and soft, nuzzles her nose against his jaw, the line of his throat, hears her breathe him in, slow and even.

“Let's go back to bed, ok,” she says after long minutes, yawning against his neck, smiling tiredly as her jaw cracks.

“Yeah?” Frank asks her. “You gonna be able to?”

She shrugs, yawns again. “Can't hurt to try.”

Laurel shifts away from him, lies back down on her side, tucking her knees up close to her chest and watching Frank with wide and tired eyes.

He lies down as well, reaches out and takes Laurel’s left hand, brings her fingers to his lips, kisses her fingertips softly, running over the scars on the pads of her fingers. She leaves her arm outstretched towards him, doesn't curl it back towards her body, blinks sleepily at him and smiles slowly, lets her eyes slip closed and her breathing even out, go slow and soft.

Frank watches her for as long as he can, until his eyes grow heavy, fighting against the sleep that winds around him like liquid, like smoke, taking him under. But he knows, even as he stops struggling against his exhaustion, lets the tension leave his limbs, that he has nothing to fear from sleep, that Laurel will be there when he wakes up, damaged and dented, but still there, still the woman he loves.

Frank wakes to the low buzz of Laurel’s phone, incessantly vibrating against the end table next to his head. He groans, rolls over and swipes clumsily at it.

“What?” he growls into it without checking the caller ID, hopes its not her boss, Joe the PD, or her father, or basically anyone he can think of.

“Frank?” A voice asks after a long moment, hesitant and anxious.

He groans out an answer, throwing one arm over his face, not bothering to look over at Laurel but hearing her breathing hitch, hearing her begin to move against the mattress, let out a low noise of annoyance, something like a whine.

“Where’s my sister?” 

“Hector?” Frank asks, mouth sluggish and still tired, brain only just beginning to catch up with what he's hearing..

“Yeah, Frank,” the voice confirms. “Where’s my sister?”

“Right ‘ere,” Frank answers, still barely coherent, his tongue slow and fumbling and packed with cotton. “She’s asleep.”

“Put her on,” Hector demands.

“Hector,” Frank groans. “She’s still asleep goddamnit.”

“Lemme talk t’ him,” Laurel mutters, slow and slurred, throwing an arm out towards Frank, meeting his elbow, letting her fingers splay soft and warm against his arm.

Frank rolls towards the center of the futon, clumsily passes the phone over to Laurel. He sees her crack an eye, put the phone next to her head on the pillow and yawn wide, bracing.

“Hec?” she asks, her voice gravelly, hoarse and Frank suddenly remembers her father’s hands wrapped around her throat, knuckles white and tight and Laurel’s eyes wide and shot through with fear. Fuck, he thinks as his stomach tilts dangerously, roiling and clenching. Fuck, fuck, fuck. But they’re free, he tells himself, it's over and they're fine, Laurel’s fine.

She must’ve turned the speaker on because Hector’s voice suddenly echoes staticky through the small cabin.

“L?” he asks. “You guys get down alright?”

She makes a vague noise that sounds something like agreement, something like a groan, and rolls towards Frank, burying her face in his chest, her fingers curling against his neck, the thin stitches on her palm meeting the puckered flesh of his cheek where little splinters of wood have carved it up, her eyelashes fluttering, featherlight and ticklish on his skin.

“Nessa wants to head down early, take the kids to some petting zoo or something before their flight,” he tells her, entirely too chipper for whatever time it is. “You gonna be up in the next hour?”

“No,” Laurel growls, sounding exhausted and annoyed. “I’m not.”

“I’ll bring bagels,” Hector offers.

“Still won't be awake,” she tells him, sounding decidedly more alert, but no less annoyed at the intrusion.

“L,” Hector whines. “C’mon. You promised me breakfast.”

“Too early Hec,” she mumbles. “Come back later.”

Hector growls. “It's my house, kid. I’ll be there in ninety.”

“Fuck off,” Laurel growls, but the line is already dead. “Fuck.”

“Wha’ time’sit?” Frank asks, shutting his eyes against the light that’s filtering into the cabin, bright and white.

“No idea,” Laurel tells him, breath fanning gentle against his neck. “But I think he means it. And I need a shower.”

Frank huffs, half thinks about protesting, pointing out that sleep sounds really, really fucking nice right now, that Laurel’s body is curled warm against him, and the gentle rock of the tide is slow and even and they fucking deserve it after the past four days, but then he feels the shift in the bed, the dip as Laurel begins moving, swinging her feet to the floor and he knows it's a lost cause.

“Morning,” Frank tells her, rolling over to his back, giving her a lopsided grin, running his hand across his beard.

Laurel rolls her eyes, looks back at him over her shoulder. “Morning.”

Her hand goes to her neck, probing at the skin there, softly, with her fingertips. Frank wants to avert his eyes, but instead looks up, faces the damage. It looks worse in the light of day; blue-black and tinged with a sickly green along the span of her throat, blotchy lines and darker fingerprints the size of quarters.

“How bad’s it look,” she asks, frowning deeply.

“It's not great,” Frank answers honestly, his voice catching in his throat.

“Well,” she sighs again. “Guess you’re gonna help me put concealer on so Hector and Nessa don't start asking questions.”

He laughs weakly. “You really wanna trust me with makeup?”

Laurel chuckles. “Gotta work with what I’ve got.”

An hour and change later they’re sitting on the deck, in the warm winter sun, bright and glaring, Laurel’s hair drying in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s sipping at a mug of warm, rich coffee, grudgingly made with Hector’s French press, her bare legs pressed warm against his thigh.

There’s the sound of heavy, thumping footfalls on the dock and Laurel’s brother steps onto the dock. “Nice to see you,” Hector drawls, holding up a paper bag filled with something. “I brought bagels.”

“Lox?” Laurel asks, raising an eyebrow. Frank sees her breathe a small sigh of relief, unclench slightly, her body loosening by degrees when it seems like Hector fails to notice the marks along her neck, barely even glances at his sister.

Hector gives her a look. “Of course. Now go see Ness before she starts honking.”

Laurel rolls her eyes but climbs to her feet, stalks off towards the parking lot where Vanessa’s car idles. Hector leans against the wall, arms crossed and watches Frank out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Frank growls with a frown.

Hector’s mouth quirks. “How bad was it with my dad?”

“Hector,” Frank says warningly.

“He’s my dad too,” Hector tells him. “And I’m the one left behind to deal with him.”

He sighs. “It wasn’t that bad,” Frank lies.

“You’re staying on my futon,” Hector snorts. “And Laurel looks like she went about a dozen rounds with Ali. And those are some interesting little cuts on your cheek.”

Frank gives Hector a look, eyebrows raised, scowling. “It's been a shitty couple of days.”

Hector grimaces, glances away.

“Look,” Frank says, trying to be as honest as he can without giving anything away about what occurred between Laurel and her father. “It was bad, of course it was bad. You’re only asking because you know how bad it probably was. But Laurel’s still standing and she seems to think that your old man’ll treat her like she’s radioactive.”

Hector chews at his lip, mouth twisting. “And what do you think?”

“I think she knows better than both of us how it's gonna play out.”

“But if you had to guess?” he presses.

“I dunno Hector,” Frank admits honestly. He doesn’t; has no idea if Jorge will take Laurel’s complete naked honesty at face value, won't think it makes her weak and vulnerable rather than strong, guileless. “But I think he’s willing to let her go for now.”

Hector scowls. “So until he thinks better of it?”

Frank nods. “Yeah, probably.”

Hector looks on the verge of tears, glances down at his feet like he can’t look away.

“Hey,” Frank asks, suddenly feeling bad, figuring he should take the initiative, prove to Laurel he meant what he said to her the night before. “You interested in coming to Philly sometime?”

Hector looks at him sharply, eyes narrowing.

“Jesus,” Frank sighs. “You wanna come visit your sister sometime or not?”

“Why isn't she the one asking me?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “She probably will. But I thought I’d extend the invitation too.”

Hector nods. “Yeah, ok.”

“Good.”

Hector smiles tentatively. “You have any coffee left?”

Frank nods, smirks. “What, too early for you?”

He scowls, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, a little.”

Frank nods, jerks his chin back toward he kitchen. “We figured your French press out eventually.”

Hector laughs, a little to wide, a little too loud and heads inside. Frank wants to ask him what's got him tense, nervous, wants to know if it's anything that spells danger for Laurel, but decides against it, decides to trust that Hector truly, truly means her no harm.

Instead, Frank leans back, looks out over the water, tries to resist the temptation to turn back to the parking lot, try to spot Laurel, spot Vanessa’s car, tries not to spy on whatever strange, fraught moment may be taking place between the two siblings. He hopes Laurel’s not abandoning her sister completely, treating her like Jorge’s hostage, and is instead agreeing to come visit her sister sometime, keep in touch with her niece and nephews; hopes for that but he doesn't hold his breath. 

“Hey,” Hector comes back out, mug clutched tightly in his hands and taking a seat across from Frank on the benches lining the back deck. “How’d you like the boat?”

“Your futon’s a piece of shit,” Frank answers honestly fixing him with a lopsided grin. “But otherwise, no complaints. Can’t beat the view.”

Hector chuckles. “No, you can't. And there’s only a couple of folks who live here full time, so it keeps the noise down. Though weekends after I’ve worked a late night can get brutal with all the asshole weekend boaters.”

“Sounds real hard, living out here on a boat with a prime view of Miami, having to worry about folks being noisy,” Frank teases, rolling his eyes at Hector. He hopes the kid doesn't take the wrong way, thinks he might be sensitive enough that it’ll set Hector lashing out, acting mean.

But he doesn't, just snorts, shrugs a little. “Sleep is important.”

Frank rolls his eyes again, just as Laurel comes into view on the dock. Her steps are light, firm, but she’s got her hands thrust deep into her pockets, shoulders folding forward, hunching and turning her small. He sees her swipe quickly, angrily at her cheek, dashing away tears.

He sees Hector give him a look out of the corner of his eye, sees his instant frown when he too spots Laurel.

“Hey,” Frank says, gently, cautiously as Laurel steps onto the boat. “You good?”

She nods quickly. “Nessa,” she begins, falters as her voice catches. She ducks her head, eyes darting away from Frank as she swallows thickly. “Nessa’s more perceptive than I give her credit for sometimes.”

“You and her?” he begins, watching as Laurel blinks back tears again, face going still and hard as she buries whatever she’s feeling.

She nods. “Nothing bad. Just, just not expected.”

“How’d you leave things?”

“Good,” she tells him, sounding half surprised, like she didn't actually expect that to be the outcome, still blinking rapidly.

“Gonna try to keep in touch better. We’ll see how that goes.”

“Good,” he echoes as she drops down beside him, hip brushing against his.


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters left after this, yo!

“Hec,” Laurel calls out, voice soft. “You ever wanted to see Philly?”

“You inviting me?” her brother asks, sounding nonchalant, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Course,” she tells him, grinning wide. “We’ll take you for cheesesteaks and force you to run the Rocky steps until you puke. Maybe the haunted jail.”

“Jesus,” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “You oughta go work for the tourism board.”

Laurel gives her brother a look. “Don't tell me you wanted to see the Liberty Bell?”

His eyes suddenly narrow, eyebrows pulling together. “You’re serious about this.”

“Of course I am,” she says. “Wouldn’t’ve offered if I wasn't.”

Hector nods, swallowing thickly. “Ok, ok yeah. I’ll see what I can do. And I won't say anything to dad.”

Laurel smiles thinly and Frank sees one hand rise to rub at her throat as though still trying to massage air into her lungs. He thinks she’ll still be doing that long after the last of the bruises fade from her neck, thinks she might be doing it forever, that nothing will ease the hurt in her. “I’d appreciate that.”

“You and dad done for good?”

“Yeah,” Laurel finally says. “I think we are.”

Hector hums. “Shit. Shit.”

“It's not like that Hec,” she tells him, lying Frank thinks. “We just…it's better for everyone if he and I go our separate ways.”  
He hums again, frowning deeply and watches Laurel for long moments, wary and doubtful. Finally he gets to his feet, brushing his hands against his pants. “Doesn’t matter now I guess,” he says. “And I promised breakfast, so come get bagels.”

They follow Hector inside the boat, crowd around the galley table spreading cream cheese, elbows jostling for space as Hector refills his mug with a smirk.

“You’d think Philly’s close enough to New York they’d make good bagels,” Laurel says around a mouthful. “Philly bagels suck.”

Frank offers a weak noise of protest in Philly’s defense before Laurel fixes him with a hard, derisive look.

Hector chuckles. “I bought a dozen, so take some back if you want. Remember me fondly for the next week as you finish them.”

She rolls her eyes. “We left you some beer, so you can do the same.”

“Awesome. It's like the anti-O’Henry. We actually get what the other one wants. Speaking of,” he continues. “I brought your rum with me. You conveniently left it behind when you got the hell out of dodge. You’re lucky I’m such a great brother and hauled it all the way back for you.”

“Thanks Hec,” Laurel says automatically, rolling her eyes at him. “Don't know what I'd do without a gallon of Cuban rum.”

“Have a pretty lame New Year’s, that's what,” he tells her, grinning wide and teasing.

“That's a point,” Frank interjects. “We can pregame with it next week. Get Michaela nice and tipsy and let her loose on that guy she’s trying to impress.”

Laurel snorts. “She really has the worst taste in men.”

Hector looks up from his coffee. “So, if I come visit can you introduce me to this friend?”

“Honestly, Hec,” she tells him. “You’d probably be the best guy she hooked up with since I’ve known her.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s shit taste.”

“Well,” Laurel tells him, ticking Michaela’s ignoble hookups off on her fingers. “There was the closeted fiancée, the meth dealer, the serial killer and the most annoying man you’ll ever meet. That was just our 1L year. Then there was the guy with twelve ferrets, the finance bro, the Objectivist and the pickup artist.”

“Don't forget the guy with a tattoo of Wynona Rider on his stomach,” Frank adds.

“Right,” Laurel agrees. “He was great, actually. Except he had a tattoo of Wynona Rider eating a donut on his stomach. So, yeah, she’d probably be lucky to hook up with you.”

“A clinically depressed cook with occasionally controlled alcoholism who lives on a barely seaworthy boat?”

“No,” she tells him, voice going low and soft, sincere, holding her brother’s eyes. She reaches out and grasps his hand, fingers catching the inside of his wrist. “A restauranteur who fixed up his own houseboat and has a rum connection.”

Hector laughs. “You ought to write my Tindr profile.”

“Come visit and you can meet Michaela, k? She’s gonna be working for some white shoe firm, making like $200K a year.”

Hector grins shyly, reaches across Laurel and grabs a bagel. “L,” he asks as he saws at the bagel. “What the hell’s a white shoe firm anyway?”

She rolls her eyes. “A firm so rich the lawyers can all afford to buy new shoes rather than ever have scuffs on them.”

Frank gives her a look. “That's not what it means.”

“Close enough,” Laurel shrugs.

“So what you’re saying is, I should trade in dad for your rich friend. Let her take care of me.”

“I’m saying,” Laurel tells him quickly. “That you’d probably like her and that she’s very smart. And driven. You could use some of that. And she could use some of you.”

He nods, laughs quickly. “Alright. I’ll try it out with the sugar mama if I come visit. Gotta talk me up though; make her think I’m creative instead of lazy.”

Laurel gives him a reassuring smile. “I’ll tell her you love pairing your food with craft cocktails. And that you’ve met like half the east coast’s James Beard winners.”

“She a foodie?”

“Nope,” Laurel admits. “But she's a sucker for the bougie life. And you, my friend, are living the bougie hipster life.”

Hector laughs quickly, grins wide around his bagel. “I am that.”

“And,” Frank adds. “You don't seem to have any embarrassing tattoo so that's a point in your favor.”

Laurel makes a noise like a snort into her mug. “He has kiwi tattoos. Like one of the bird and one of the fruit.”

“How is that not awesome?” Hector asks, lifting up the edge of his shirt to expose his jutting hipbones, pointing to the left side and then the right where, among his other tattoos, he points out two little fuzzy brown designs.

“It's _something_ ,” Frank allows, catching Hector's expectant glance.

“And they’ll have no trouble identifying my body.”

Laurel’s glance goes sharp, bordering on angry and the noise that emerges from her throat is tight, strangled. Frank thinks perhaps the words cut too close for her, allude just a little too clearly to the heart of what she believes Hector may fear most.

He wonders if Laurel ever thinks like this, has ever considered her scars and thought that at least it will make work for anyone seeking to kill her quietly, easily, unnoticed. He wonders if she ever thought about a tattoo, some way to mark her body as unique, distinct, thinks she probably already has enough scars on her skin, suspects that's probably why she's less inked than her brother.

“L,” Hector says quickly. “That’s not why.”

“Then why?” she grits out through clenched teeth, practically glaring at him.

He shrugs. “You know why. Because I have all this uniform space. Might as well do something with it.”

She rolls her eyes, frowns in that way Laurel has of making herself look crushed, almost heartbroken, the corners of her mouth pulling down and her eyes big and wide and sad. “If it's not why, then why’d you wait until after to start collecting ink?”

“Because I was scared to start. Afterwards, well,” he says, with a little shrug. “I stopped being scared of a lot of things afterwards.”

“Yeah,” Laurel says softly, and her frown grows deeper, glancing away from Hector for half a second, and Frank watches her hands tighten into fists at her sides, watches her body go stiff like she’s expecting a blow, bracing herself for it. “Lots of things changed after.”

Hector nods. “We were both different people after.”

_“Everything_ was different after,” Laurel corrects. There's a weighty feel to her words, like they’re talking about something significant, something much more than Frank can hope to pick up, to translate or guess at. He thinks they’re talking about the heart of what happened, the moments of terror and hurt they endured with only each other to rely on, with only the other to witness it. He thinks that they’re the only ones who can truly understand; that Laurel could talk to him about it for hours, days, for the rest of her life and he’d never begin to understand what happened to her, how it changed her, in the way that Hector can, because he was there, before during and after. Because Hector was there too, could see what was done to her, to her skin, to her body, to her mind. Laurel doesn't need to explain things to her brother, knows that he can understand instinctively too, how she felt, because he saw it, felt it himself.

Frank realizes then, the thought sudden and jarring, that Laurel and Hector are now the only ones left, the only ones who knew what went on in that room and who still breathe. He thinks it's something to be celebrated, something small but significant that they survived all the men who sought to kill them; have forged lives, connections, have tried, haltingly, to be happy in the wake of what was done to them. He thinks it's the best fucking revenge they could have hoped for, better than the bullets Jorge delivered, better than the wrath Laurel contemplated and then discarded. Just living at all is revenge, but living well, living happily, Frank thinks, that’s the best middle finger they could have hoped for.

“Not everything,” Hector tells her, smirking, pushing on her shoulder lightly with his hand. “You’re still a brat.”

Laurel laughs. “And you're still my jerk older brother.”

“We did ok for ourselves though, didn't we?” Hector asks, suddenly serious again, his eyes intent and focused on Laurel for some kind of note of untruth, or some tell that will give away her thoughts.

She nods. “We did alright,” she assures him firmly. “Wasn't always easy, but we made it through.”

“I was worried about you for a while,” he tells her, voice soft, taking her hand this time, clasping it in his own. “You had a quiet self destruction thing going on for a while, like you were racing yourself to the bottom of something. Had that though most of college. But you seem good now, like you’ve found your footing.”

“I have,” Laurel agrees, glancing quickly at Frank, shifting her body closer until her thigh touches his, drawing some kind of strength or comfort from his body, or trying to pass that strength or comfort onto him. Frank shifts his hand, off the table and settles his hand against her knee, tries to do the same. “Took a little while to really stop wishing wishing I was just a ghost or something.”

“I’m doing better too,” Hector says quickly, like he wants to tell her, wants to make it clear that he’s fine, reassure Laurel before she leaves again. Frank thinks, again, this strange pact of survival they share requires a solidarity, a burden for each other that goes beyond siblings. Laurel and Hector, they are their sibling’s keeper, ensuring the other is safe, protected, doesn't falter in trying to move beyond their horrible shared past. They are joined together by pain and fear, but also by a fierce doggedness to ensure they both not only survive, but come to something good. “Not perfect, but the restaurant’s helped. A lot. I’m able to get up most days.”

“That’s good Hec,” she tells him. “I’m proud of you, really.”

“Yeah?” he asks, looking for all the world like a little boy seeking praise.

“Yeah,” she says. “I am. You have every reason not to be, but you’re better than the rest of them.”

“Not as good as you.”

Laurel shrugs. “I didn't do anything.”

“It was something though,” he tells her. “Standing up to dad, that's more than I can say for most people.”

“That's not,” Laurel begins, a current of frustration threading through her words. “You know what? I’m not going to talk about him anymore, ok, Hec? Part of getting free of him is not focusing on him, on what I have to do to keep him happy, or to avoid trouble. Getting out means I’m out, and he can't matter anymore.”

He and Hector both look at her for a long, silent minute. Frank thinks that judging by the cast to her jaw, stubborn and set, the way her eyes flash, she’s serious. He thinks that when Laurel told her father to treat her like she was dead she meant it, not just for him, but for herself as well. That they were done, the break was permanent and she would force herself to stop treating Jorge as an object of terror, heartbreak and loathing, treat him as though he had died and was no longer able to cause her anymore pain.

He thinks that's a good thing, if possible, but isn't sure it is. Frank’s pretty certain that Laurel can't just decide not to be afraid of her father anymore, just as she hasn't been able to force herself to stop loving him. He’s the thing that haunts her steps, casts a shadow over every move, every decision she makes; Frank’s not naïve enough to think otherwise. From her decision to go to law school, to her move to Philly, even to Laurel’s initial attraction to him, Frank’s not stupid enough not to see Jorge’s hand, steering everything, even when Laurel tries to shake him off, tries to choose her own path. Her past, Jorge looming large, colors everything she does, like Frank’s own past colors all his decisions. He knows it's not possible to completely wipe the slate clean, doesn't think it's even worth the effort to try, but he does hope that moving forward at least Jorge can become something like a memory, like a long-forgotten fear that no longer holds any sway. He hopes, but prepares himself for the worst.

“No problem,” Hector says, nodding slowly, still regarding Laurel cautiously, as though trying to weigh her words, her sincerity. 

“I wanna know what's going on with you instead,” she prompts. “Tell me more about what you've been doing with the boat. Or what happened with that tattoo artist you were obsessing over last time I was home. The one with the great lips.”

“The tattoo artist with the great lips turned out to have a boyfriend. And a husband. There wasn't enough room for me. But I did get a really great piece on my thigh out of it. And I’ve moved on to obsessing about a yoga instructor with great calves and no boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Laurel asks, raising an eyebrow at something she must pick up in her brother’s tone.

He shrugs. “Maybe. Wouldn't be the first time I went barking up the wrong tree.”

Laurel laughs. “Well, like I said, I’ll definitely set you up with my friend Michaela if you want. Her lips aren't bad, her calves are too and she's smart as hell.”

Hector grins. “I’ll think about it. If I strike out with yoga instructor, I’ll try my hand at dating a real professional.”

“Someday you and Frank oughta compare notes on dating the wrong people,” she tells him, swinging a quick glance towards Frank, teasing and laced with affection, her hand sliding against his forearm.

“Hey,” Frank protests, more out of habit than anything. “I eventually got it right.”

“You have a thing for tattoo artists not into monogamy too Frank?” Hector jokes as Laurel rolls her eyes.

“Something like that,” Frank tells him. “I always had a thing for dark-haired rich girls. They wanted to piss their parents off, or try slumming it, prove they could.”

“And you?” Hector asks. “What did you want?”

“I convinced myself rich meant smart, wound up dating a lot of girls who only saw me as local color till graduation.”

“Until my sister.”

“Right,” Frank agrees, letting his gaze dart toward Laurel, to her beaming smile and bright eyes. “Until I figured out only smart meant smart.”

He laughs. “You date enough rich girls you’ll eventually find a smart one.”

“Took longer than it should’ve,” Frank says, hazarding a glance at Laurel, seeing her tiny smile, her bright eyes, seeing the way she bites her lip to keep from laughing at him.

“That’s ok,” Hector tells him. “Laurel dated a lot of nice guys and a lot of bad guys and it took her longer than it should to just date a guy who made her happy.”

Laurel snorts and rolls her eyes. “It's not really quite so easy. It's not like every other guy out there’d make me happy.”

“Actually, just me I hope,” Frank says, smile teasing.

Laurel shrugs, face going blank, innocent. “There’s six billion people in the world, Frank, statistically, there’s at least a half dozen others who’d come close.”

“So you wouldn't mind if I wanted to play the field a little more?” he asks her with a smirk. “See if I could find someone who makes me happier?”

Her grin goes dangerous, wide so that he can see her eyeteeth. “Try it. I dare you.”

Hector gives a little noise like a laugh or a snort and Laurel gives him a look.

“You couldn't get rid of me if you tried,” he tells her, threading their fingers together until he feels the laugh bubble up into her chest.

“I doubt she’s gonna try,” Hector tells him. “She looks pretty attached to you.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks her. “You attached to me?”

“I am,” Laurel tells him, knocking his shoulder with hers, grin spreading wide. “But more crucially, I think _you're_ pretty attached to _me._ ”

 


	60. Chapter 60

“Speaking of,” Hector says, raising his eyebrows as he takes a long sip of coffee. “Either of you ever gonna talk about those rings you’re both sporting?”

Frank glances down at his hand, at Laurel’s thin fingers, at their twin paper rings, tries to give nothing away on his face. He feels Laurel’s hand tighten in his, around his hand, feels the tension in her skin, sees her frown, eyes narrowing.

“What about them?” Laurel asks, voice stiff, eyes darting down at their joined hands for a quick moment before looking back up, holding Hector’s eyes.

“Frank pop the question?” Hector prompts. “Or you just randomly decided to sprout matching rings two days ago?”

She glances at her brother, then to Frank, frown easing slightly. “I did.”

“Did what?”

“Popped the question.”

The grin that splits Hector’s face is wide, open. “No shit, L,” he says, standing, coming up to his sister, clapping Frank on the shoulder as he does. “No shit, congratulations.”

He gathers his sister in a tight hug when she stands, laughs at her scowl, at the stiffness in her bones that blooms sudden and eases only slowly, by degrees as the hug continues. “Could’ve sworn none of you noticed,” Laurel says.

Hector rolls his eyes, tightens his arms around her. “I was waiting till you said something. But you didn't. So I had to bring it up.”

“Ness notice too?” Laurel asks, pulling back a little to regard her brother, a small smile playing around her lips.

“Yeah,” Hector tells her, rolling his eyes. “She did actually. She even insisted you’d be the one that asked, not him. Bitch. You got the jump on Frank, huh?”

“I did,” she says, smirking as she looks from her brother to Frank and back again.

“I have a ring back home,” Frank says, feeling like he needs to defend himself, his decision to wait. “Wanted to wait till we got back.”

Hector and Laurel turn and regard him, share a look, share two identical shrugs. “Snooze you lose,” Hector tells him as the two of them grin in unison.

Frank laughs, holds Laurel’s eyes. “As long as the end results the same, I don't mind being the one proposed to.”

“Better not,” she tells him, going to sit beside Frank again, kissing his cheek as she does stroking her thumb along the back of his hand.

“L,” Hector says then. “No big deal that you didn't say anything, but you better invite me to the wedding. I won't say shit to dad or Elena or whoever you want. But you better not try to keep me in the dark about it.”

“I won't Hec,” she tells him seriously. “You don't have to come, or send a gift, but I’ll make sure you get an invite.”

“Even if you just go to the courthouse?”

She nods. “Even if all we do is head to the courthouse over lunch.”

“I’ll make you guys a cake,” Hector offers. “Give it tiers and all.”

Laurel snorts. “I've seen your baking. We’ll pass. But you can still come up.”

“You guys have any idea when you’re gonna tie the knot?”

He glances over at Laurel, just as she turns to meet his eyes. They both look a little sheepish, Frank thinks, that they've never even discussed it; whether they want to get married soon or wait a year or have a big wedding, neither of them even thinking beyond the simple fact that they were engaged, that they both wanted to be together forever.

“I dunno,” Laurel says, scanning Frank’s face for something. “Probably won't be for a while. Between graduation and the bar and all, I think we’ll need some time to chill out and enjoy life.”

Hector hums, gives Frank long look, seemingly judging his agreement with Laurel.

“You name the time and place,” Frank says, turning to Laurel, watching as she plays with the handle of her coffee mug in something like nervousness, refuses to meet his gaze. “And I’m in. Five years from now, next Tuesday, middle of a blizzard. Doesn't matter when you want, I’m there.”

She smiles down at her coffee and Frank hears the little ‘yeah’ that issues from her lips.

“Well try to give me at least a few day’s notice, huh?” Hector tells her. “Enough time to catch a bus, find someone to handle the restaurant for a day or two.”

“I think I can manage that,” she says grinning. “Probably.”

“Frank?” Hector asks, turning to him. “You willing to give me the inside knowledge?”

“Sure,” he tells Hector. “You'll get whatever notice I do.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “When have you ever known me to be impulsive? I’m not gonna do it with my wedding.”

“You’re impulsive about the important things,” Hector says quickly.

“No one’s saying you’re impulsive,” Frank corrects giving Hector a little narrow-eyed glare, urging him to shut up. “The problem is you keep things so close to the vest that when you make a decision it looks like it comes out of nowhere.”

She laughs, looks fleetingly guilty, eyes sliding away to her feet as she bites her lower lip. “I’ll try to keep you in the loop on this one at least. It's not just my decision after all.”

“So if I said I wanted to get married in Cancun at some terrible tourist resort?”

Laurel’s mouth quirks into a little frown. “If you really wanted, though you’d probably have to do a lot of sucking up. If we go to Mexico, we’re not going to a resort.”

Frank laughs. “God, even thinking about it sounds terrible.”

“We should go though,” she says after a long moment, voice serious. “To Mexico. I want you to see where I come from.”

“Not Florida?” he asks.

Laurel shakes her head. “No, not Florida.”

“Next vacation then,” he tells her, ducking his head so that he can meet her eyes best. “After you take the bar, so I have a little time to get some Spanish under my belt.”

Hector rolls his eyes, scoffs at them. “You two are disgusting together.”

“Sorry,” Laurel shrugs, not sounding sorry at all. “Wedding’s likely to be even worse.”

“I still want an invite,” he tells her. 

“I’ll even pay for bus fare, how's that?” Laurel asks with a grin. “Since you’re so eager to attend.”

“I promise I won't even take your money and go to New Orleans instead.”

“Just send beignets if you do,” she tells him. “And all will be forgiven.”

“Shoulda told me you wanted some,” Hector says, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen. “Coulda made em for you.”

Laurel shrugs. “Bagels are good too.”

Hector hums. “You have time to go to Nick’s place real quick? We could grab you some for the flight.”

Laurel glances at her watch, looks to Frank. “I don't think so. We should probably get going to the airport soon too.”

Hector takes a long, ragged breath. “Yeah. Yeah, ok. I’m gonna miss you though, L.”

“Miss you too,” she tells him. “Come visit, I’ll drive you nuts after two days.”

He smiles thinly. “I’ll call more too. Not just drunk texts when I'm feeling sorry for myself.”

“I do look forward to those texts,” she says wryly. “They always come at like 4:30 the night before an exam. We don't talk for six months and then, like clockwork, right before an exam.”

“I bet you do,” Hector says. “Trying to decipher what I mean and who I’m angry at.”

She chuckles. “One time I’m pretty sure you were mad about a squirrel following you.”

“It was,” he insists. “It was big and white and followed me like seven blocks.”

“Promise to call more too,” she tells him. “And I’ll try to pick up.”

“Only if I can still call at 4:00 a.m.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Sure Hec, as long as you don't mind five minutes of curses before you’re allowed to tell me about more squirrel stalkers.”

“Worth it,” Hector says, standing and taking his mug to the sink. “Now come help me with the dishes so you don't miss your flight.”

Laurel huffs but stands and goes to help her brother, snagging Frank's mug and her own as she goes, knocking Hector's hip as they stand side by side at the sink.

If Frank squints just right, lets his eyes go unfocused, he thinks he could see what they were as children, just a brother and sister bickering over dishes, carefree and teasing, passing plates and mugs back and forth with practiced ease. He thinks that once, when they were young, they may have been like this all the time, without the hard kernel of tension, without the constant looks over their shoulders for the hidden knife, without the corrosive rot caused by years of anger, fear and lies, thinks that once, once, they could've been like this, just two siblings washing dishes.

He thinks, hopes, prays that someday Laurel and Hector can be like this again, be like this always, get out of the shadow of their father, their mother, the entirety of their horrible childhoods, can slip beyond that and just enjoy each other without being reminded of the terrible secrets, the terrible past they share, can just be themselves, washing dishes. Frank expects it will take time, time and distance, but he thinks if they’re strong and smart and committed, it can be, someday, can just be the two of them and not the army of ghosts that stretch out between them like a canyon.

He doesn't think the scars will ever fade, doesn't think the shadow of their father will ever cease haunting Laurel and Hector's steps, but he thinks it might get easier, thinks Jorge Castillo might become a lingering specter, like smoke on the breeze, like a long remembered nightmare, distant but still capable of causing a little impotent tremor of fear. He thinks that may be the best Laurel can hope for; that Jorge can fade into obscurity, can fade in importance, can become little more than a memory, not capable of inspiring anything more than a small moment of chewed-lip, rolled-shoulder concern. He thinks that maybe it's possible, today, finally more than a distant wishful pipe dream, thinks it might be achievable, not just for a moment, not just until Jorge reconsiders, re-exerts his authority, his violent strength, but maybe, tomorrow, Laurel will be able to take some of that strength back for herself.

“Hey,” Laurel calls then, rousing Frank from his thoughts, half turning so he sees her in profile, sees her thin, quick grin, showing just a hint of teeth, the way she meets his eyes, warm and laughing. “Grab a towel and come help.”

“There enough room for all three of us?” he asks, hand already against the table, pushing himself to his feet to join them.

Laurel’s shoulders hitch and her grin stretches wider, going crooked. “We’ll make it work.”

“Good thing I like you,” he says, coming up beside her, slipping his hand against her lower back, her hip, fingers toying at the hem of her shirt.

“Good thing,” she echoes, handing him a plate to dry as she steps back into the weight of his body.

He sees Hector’s little smirking eye-roll above Laurel’s head, feels himself grin in return and decides yeah, yeah maybe things will be alright, someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now, but someday. Laurel will be ok, someday, and maybe Hector will too, maybe they’ll just be two siblings bound together by affection and not secrets and pain and terror.

“Hey,” Laurel calls out as they approach the airport, leaning forward in her seat to grab Hector’s attention. “You’re missing the turnoff.”

Hector shakes his head, doesn't slow, doesn't change lanes to try and make the slip road for airport departures. “I’m not going there.”

“Then where the hell you taking us Hec?” Laurel asks, voice going hard and her arms crossing over her chest.

“I wanna go in with you guys,” he tells her smoothly, finally flicking his turn signal on as the sign for short term parking comes into view. “Not just hugging you at the curb before security chases me off.”

Laurel snorts. “That's gonna cost you like $10 you know.”

Hector shrugs one shoulder, raises his eyebrows at his sister in the rearview mirror. “I’m gonna give you a proper hug before you leave, L,” he tells her.

“You’ve hugged me a dozen times this weekend,” she says, scowling hard.

“And you flinch every time,” Hector says with a roll of his eyes.

“And this time’s gonna be different?”

“I dunno,” Hector says, pulling up to the little parking booth and taking a ticket. “Maybe not. But I wanna give you a proper send off, whether you want to accept it or not.”

Laurel nods, small and quick. “Sometimes it's about you, not me.”

“Right,” he says. “But I'd still like it if you hugged me back.”

Laurel says nothing as Hector pulls into a parking spot, kills the engine.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll hug Frank instead.”

Frank eyes him as Laurel chuckles quickly. “You can try that too. I’m not sure you'll be any more successful.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Hecto teases, his grin spreading wide till Frank thinks it practically takes over his face. “I think Frank digs me.”

“He's not much of a hugger, Hec,” Laurel says, giving Frank a sympathetic look, weary and wry.

“You two touch all the time.”

“I’ve also seen him naked,” Laurel points out as Frank can't help his snort, the incredulous look he gives her in the mirror.

“Somehow I doubt he’s gonna want to let you in on that.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Frank says quickly. “I think I’ll stick to letting Laurel be the only one to see my junk.”

Hector rolls his eyes, yanks the door open, dropping his voice an octave in something that edges towards mockery. “Fine. We’ll shake hands like ‘real men.’”

Laurel rolls her eyes as she follows him out of the car, around to the trunk. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Frank sees Hector’s face darken and he braces himself for Hector to lash out, to try to wound Laurel, cause her hurt. He thinks it was too damn good to be true, this final morning, the easy, light breakfast and conversation and affection between Laurel and her brother, like Jorge, like their past had lifted like early morning fog. He should've known it wouldn't last, couldn't last for long.

But then Laurel leaves the trunk, goes to where Hector is standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. She doesn't reach out, doesn't really even get close and Frank watches her brow furrow and her teeth sink into her lower lip, chewing lightly. “Hec,” she begins.

Frank watches his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow even further and he thinks Laurel’s not going to be able to diffuse this tension, not going to be able to smooth over this sudden, rising anger.

“Look, Hec,” she tries again. “I’m sorry; you're not ridiculous. And I’m sorry I’m bad at hugs. It's hard for me to be down here and it's hard for me to trust anything, even you. But I love you, ok? A hug’s not gonna prove whether I love you or not.”

She ducks her head, forces her brother to meet her eyes. Hector’s look is still mulish, his scowl still twisting the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I know,” he says finally, voice like a sigh. “Just, I love you, L. And you’re still my little sister, even if you haven't needed me for years. I only have one of you and sometimes it hurts that not even you look up to me anymore.”

“I do,” she assures him. “I think what you're doing with your restaurant is amazing, and it makes you happy and that's so, so good. I still want to be like you when I grow up.”

Hector smiles, shy and crooked. 

“You're still my favorite brother,” she continues.

“It's me or Adrian at this point,” he rolls his eyes, but the grin remains. “You hardly have much choice.”

“Doesn't mean I don’t like you best.”

“You just don't like hugs,” Hector adds.

“Right,” she says. “But at least I hug you. I can barely be in the same room as Adrian.”

Hector laughs, finally, nearly throws his head back with it. “Small comfort. I don't think even Colleen likes being in the same room with him.”

Laurel grins, tries to smother it into a thin, flat line, into something neutral. “Oh c’mon, I think Colleen likes him well enough. At least until she gets a baby out of him.”

“Way harsh Tai,” Hector says with a barking laugh.

Laurel steps forward then, steps into Hector’s space, their bodies nearly touching. “There,” she says. “Have I managed to make you feel better?”

“L,” he growls. “It's not about making me feel better.”

“I know,” she tells him. “But I want to anyway.”

She takes another half step forward, into her brother’s chest, lets Hector wrap his arms around her, lets her body ease into his touch. “Love you Hec,” Frank hears her mumble into his chest. “You’ve always tried to be a good brother, and I love you.”

“I’ll try to be a better one,” he tells her hair, jaw going stiff and blinking hard. “I won't abandon you this time when you walk away from dad.”

“You haven't,” Laurel says fiercely, her arms coming up to return the hug, wrap around Hector’s back for an extended moment. “You’ve already stuck your neck out for me. I know you won't drop me this time.”

“I won't,” he agrees, voice tight. “I’m smarter than I was ten years ago.”

“Yeah?” she asks, pulling back slightly, raising one eyebrow and grinning wicked and teasing. “You sure about that one?”

He shakes his head, sighs affectionately. “You’re a brat.”

Laurel shrugs, unconcerned. “Didn't you just say you missed me being your bratty little sister?”

“You know that wasn't what I meant.”

“Well, it's what you get,” she says, shrugging again, letting another wild grin tug at her lips.

Hector laughs, hugs her tight again. “Love you anyway,” he tells her, and Frank hears the roughness, the catch in his voice, sees the way Hector blinks back the threat of tears.

“Love you too,” she replies. “No matter what ok?”

He nods against her hair. “Yeah.”

“Hec,” she says then, stepping back, breaking the hug, giving him a long, serious look. “You’re not like him, you know that right? You’ve never been like him.”

“That's always been the problem though,” he tells her, something tight constricting his words as Hector swallows thickly. “Not being like him.”

“It's not a problem,” Laurel insists and there’s something hard, something angry in her voice suddenly. “It's the best part of you. I've spent my entire life trying not to be like him, and you just are.”

Hector makes a sound like a sob, looks away from Laurel.

“It doesn't make you weak either,” she continues, taking his arm, forcing his eyes back to hers. “It makes you brave. I don't ever wanna talk about dad again, but you need to know that. Someone needs to tell you that.”

“Laurel,” he begins, voice strangled, low.

“Don't argue,” she tells him, trying to laugh, trying to rolls her eyes, but Frank hears her throat close and sees her eyes fill with tears. She swipes her thumb angrily under her eyes, dashing the moisture away. “Just hear what I’m saying.”

He nods. “Ok, ok, I hear you.”

“Good,” she says, stepping into his arms again. “Now you can hug me again.”

Hector laughs, sounding choked still, but brings his arms up around her shoulders, swallows hard against her hair. “You don't always have to look out for me, L. It should be the other way around.”

She shakes her head. “It should be whatever way works. And when you need me to tell you something, I’m gonna tell you. _That's_ how it should be.”

Hector laughs, sighs wearily. “You never need anyone, L. I’m not sure you ever did.”

She looks for a moment like she’s gonna say something sarcastic, Frank sees the glint in her eye, in the turn of her mouth, but sees her swallow it. “Who cares if I need you, Hec?” she asks finally. “If I _want_ you around, if I _choose_ to have you in my life, isn't that better?”

“God,” he tells her thickly, swallowing around what Frank thinks must be a hard lump in the back of his throat. “Law school really was a good choice for you.”

Laurel grins, but Frank sees the tears sparkling behind her eyes before she blinks them away. “Good thing, that, huh?”

Hector sighs, knocks Laurel’s shoulder lightly and steps back, pops the trunk. “C’mon kid, let’s get you back to Philly.”


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So here were are at the last damn chapter. It's been a long, slow slog to get here, but here's hoping you enjoyed it anyway. I've certainly been pretty blown away by the reception it's gotten and want to give a big (huge, giant, earth shattering, world destroying) thank you to anyone/everyone who's stuck it out and finished reading the fic with me. It's kind of crazy that what I thought for a long time was just gonna be my weird, obsessive head-canon turned into this thing that other people read and enjoy too. So, basically, thanks, because I'm not sure I would've gotten to the point where i actually finished writing (or finished writing something with a semi-coherent plot) without all the love (kudos, comments and just reading it at all) you guys have left. So thanks, really, truly.
> 
> Anyway, the last chapter. I hope you think once you've finished that I've managed to do the idea and the characters justice and lived up to whatever idea you might've had in your own head about what this fic could be/how it should end.

Laurel falls asleep nearly as soon as they get on the plane, slumping heavy against the window, mouth falling open, her breathing deep and even. Frank watches her sleep, watches the lines of tension and pain that etch deep marks in her face, watches them ease the longer she sleeps, watches her limbs go loose, spreading wide against the cramped space of their seats.

She sleeps far longer than he expects, wakes about an hour into the flight, over what he thinks is maybe North Carolina, stretching quickly, giving him a slow, slinking smile, her eyes barely open.

“Hey you,” he says as she blinks awake slowly.

“Hey.”

Laurel rolls her shoulders slightly and Frank thinks he sees something in her unfurl, thinks her spine straightens, no longer hunched and curved, like a weight has eased from her. She looks at him and the little frown she gets in her sleep, the little furrow in her brow suddenly smooths over, suddenly vanishes.

She takes his hand, brings it to her thigh and turns towards the window, idly toying with his fingers as she watches the clouds, the coastline far below them, watches Florida get farther and farther away, recede into the distance, into the past  
Laurel is silent the rest of the flight, barely even glancing towards Frank, but he watches her, watches her body unfold, unclench, watches the heaviness go out of her limbs, watches the clouds pass from her eyes, watches the tight rasp of her breath turn steady, even and light. Her shoulders roll back and he watches her unclench slow, slow, slow, like ice melting, like tectonic plates shifting, like flowers blooming in the sun. By the time they land she seems almost like the Laurel he’s known, the Laurel he thought he knew before Florida, the Laurel he hopes he’ll see again, soon.

She turns away from the window as they touch down, smiles at him.

“It looks like it's snowing,” she says, her grin small, but light, pleased.

“Great,” he growls, though he can’t help but smile back, can't help feel some of her enthusiasm, can’t help but love the way Laurel still gets excited about the snow, how she still finds it magical the way the city is blanketed, the way the flakes fall slow and heavy like confetti, like glittering stars. Frank can’t help but feel something ease within him, something he didn't know was ragged and broken go smooth when he sees her smile, thinks that she needed the snowfall, needed to return to something she loves, something beautiful after those four horrible days in Florida. He doesn't care if they get three feet of it, doesn't care if they’re snowed in for _days_ , as long as Laurel continues to smile like that, small and shining.

“Oh, c’mon,” she says, and he can hear the laugh in her voice. “We’ll do make-up Christmas. Do it right, with snow and hot chocolate and, I dunno, see if we can find some mistletoe or something.”

Frank laughs before he can help himself, leans forward and kisses her, quick and rough. “Where you think we can get mistletoe?”

She shrugs. “No idea. But we should get some anyway. And Santa hats.”

“Whatever you want,” he tells her as they pull up to the gate. “You name it, I’ll track it down, princess. We’ll do make-up Christmas right.”

“Well, we do have Hector’s rum,” she muses. “I can't think of anything else we need.”

“You naked would be good start,” Frank says lowly, leaning into her side, his hands walking up her ribs.

Laurel’s breath hitches, but she rolls her eyes at him, moves to stand. “A good place to start would be dinner with your folks,” she tells him. “Then after we can talk about getting naked.”

Frank laughs, grabs their stuff from the overhead bins, handing Laurel her jacket and bag. “Sounds like a plan. Then we’ll have rum _and_ cookies for our naked Christmas party.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” she agrees, following Frank into the aisle, following him out of the plane. “Call off tomorrow, we’ll have a snow day.”

“Not sure Annalise’ll buy that I’m sick,” he says.

“She’ll let you get away with it,” Laurel tells him. “You told me Bonnie blew off all last week.”

“Maybe,” Frank agrees. “But I’ll go in late if she gives me grief.”

She hums as they step off the plane, lets Frank take her hand, gives him a crooked grin from the corner of her mouth as he strokes his fingers over the back of her knuckles. “Well, at least that’ll let me get a head start on next semester’s readings. If you're not around to distract me.”

“Well,” he says seriously. “I’ll make a note of that. Be sure to send you some distracting texts, maybe a video or two.”

“I wouldn't expect anything less,” Laurel tells him, a small laugh bubbling out of her that makes her glance around, guiltily, as though she thinks someone’s going to overhear in the crowded terminal. “If you really step up your game you might get one or two in return.”

“Videos?” he asks, voice low, almost too eagerly, glancing over at her, meeting her eyes and suddenly it's as though they’re the only people in the terminal, the only people in the world. He doesn't know how Laurel does that to him, grabs his focus so completely that she’s the only thing he sees, the only thing he knows, but he hopes that she never stops doing that to him, hopes he’s eighty and she can still make his breath catch, make his focus narrow to just her.

She shrugs vaguely, grinning. “Could be.”

“Well,” he tells her. “I’ll be sure to bring my A-game tomorrow.”

Laurel laughs, low and breathless and Frank wonders, maybe, if he can do the same to her. “Better make it all week; otherwise I’ll have to distract myself with day-time courtroom shows, and that's much less fun.”

Frank grins, wide and teasing. “Glad I can at least beat out Judge Judy for your attention even if RBG and me’d be no contest.”

Laurel reaches between their bodies, takes his hand quickly, squeezing his fingers as she speaks. “It's _RBG_ , Frank,” she tells him with a quick smile. “No one stands a chance against her.”

“Not even my videos?”

She shakes her head in exaggerated sadness. “Tragically no.”

“Then I guess I really have to step my game up,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at her until Laurel rolls her eyes, can’t help the grin the slides onto her face. “Send you some really high quality texts.”

“I’ll be waiting for them,” she tells him, voice a low purr as they step toward the baggage claim, both of them keeping an eye out for Laurel’s bag, loaded full of Cuban rum. “Might not even put pants on tomorrow.”

“Jesus, Laurel,” he grits out, glancing around at the family of five standing a few feet away, the elderly woman waiting with what’s probably her teenage grandson, trying to slow his racing heart, the blood all rushing to his dick. “You had to tell me that here?”

“Sorry,” she tells him with a little unconcerned shrug. “Didn't know that’d be what got you.”

“Jesus, Laurel,” he repeats, voice becoming a growl. “ _You_ get me, everything you do.”

She gives him a quick grin as she steps forward, snags her bag off the conveyor belt. “That's why we need a snow day.”

He nods, swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he agrees, because right now he can deny her nothing. “Definitely.”

Laurel drops her bag beside him, and throws her coat over her shoulders, waiting for Frank to do the same. “I’m _not_ looking forward to being back in the cold,” she says, watching the snow come down outside, the huddled crowds waiting for their rides. “But I am _so_ glad to be out of Florida.”

“Me too,” Frank agrees. “And I’ll turn the heat up as soon as we get to the car. You won't even notice you’ve left Palm Beach.”

“Except that my family’s a thousand miles away,” she says with a small, tentative smile, like she’s testing out an old injury, testing to make sure it's capable of bearing weight, doesn't cause any additional pain.

“Except that,” Frank allows, as they head out into the cold to wait for the bus to the parking lot.

“Wow,” Laurel says with a light little laugh as the wall of cold washes over them, instantly chilling their bones. “Four days and I forget what winter’s like.”

“Well,” Frank tells her. “This is a pretty good reminder.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, moving her body close to his, tucking herself close against his hip, her right hand finding his jacket pocket, slipping inside. “Yeah, wow.”

“You still wanna go to my folks’?” he asks her, watching as their breaths fog in the icy air. “Or wanna head home, order some pizza and stay inside until the thaw?”

“Let's go see your parents,” she tells him. “Get some _real_ Italian food. And we can share some of this rum.”

Frank laughs as the parking bus approaches, tries to ignore the tightness in his chest when he thinks about going home, about what might be waiting for them back at the apartment; a man with a ski mask and a gun hidden behind the door, or, perhaps worse, a man in a suit or a new postcard from Barrow. “You really are trying to secure your spot as favorite daughter in law, aren't you?”

“Whatever it takes,” she says, flashing him a sharp grin, stepping up onto the lumbering, shuddering bus.

“I’m gonna have to talk to Mary,” he says referring to his oldest brother’s wife, who tends to think that she’s in charge when his ma’s distracted or otherwise occupied. “See what she thinks about that.”

Laurel shrugs. “Talk to her all you want,” she tells him. “I’ve still got Hector’s rum connection. All she’s got is talk.”

Frank laughs. “That’s cold Castillo.”

They’re separated by the growing crowd that follows them onto the bus and by the time they step back off the bus, something has shifted in Laurel, something heavy and somber has returned to her eyes, her face, her limbs.

Frank watches her out of the corner of his eyes, watches her sigh, turn her face to the sky, watching the snow come down, watching her breath fog and steam, blinking rapidly against the flakes.

He roots through his bag for his keys, unlocks the car so Laurel can slip inside. He sticks their bags inside the trunk, tries to clean off the car as best he can before joining her inside, kicking the snow from his shoes against the running board of his car.

“Lucky thing we got in when we did,” he mutters, trying to get warmth back into his fingers, cranking the heat high. “Any longer, they’d’ve cancelled our flight, diverted us to Baltimore or something.”

“Don't even joke about that,” she tells him flatly, refusing to turn in his direction, staring, eyes fixed, out the window, the sound of a little sigh escaping her.

“I’m not,” he says, gesturing at the swirling snow, as the wipers do their best to scrape the last of the snow off the windscreen. “It's starting to stick on the road already.”

Laurel hums, rests her head against the window and Frank watches her eyes slip closed.

“Well,” he tries. “We made it back. And in twenty minutes we’ll be drinking wine and eating chicken parm.” 

She says nothing, doesn't open her eyes, doesn't make any noise to acknowledge she’s heard him. Frank lets her be, lets her have what little space she can in the small car, figures it won't do him any good to force her to feel something she’s not ready to feel, force her to be someone she’s not ready to be just yet. If she can't be sad, angry, exhausted with him, if he won't let her be those things, then what the fuck are they even doing? So he lets her be, hopes she can find her way back to herself, eventually. And if not, then well, he’ll learn to love that Laurel too.

“You know,” Laurel tells him after they’ve been driving for long, long minutes, after Frank begins to think he was wrong, so wrong about things being ok, going back to normal once they got home, thinks that Laurel may never be ok, not for a long, long time. Her voice startles him, his body twitches against his will so that he has to smother it down, keep from jumping with clenched hands, clenched jaw. “As crazy as it sounds, I’m glad we went down there.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, because really, what else can he say to that. He doesn't doubt her, doesn't doubt she thinks it was a good thing, a necessary thing, it's just that he can’t get behind that sentiment, not yet, not when there are still blue-black and sickly yellow bruises hiding underneath a thick layer of concealer on her throat, not when her right hand is still angry and red and stamped with stitches running across the lines of her palm, not when he’s not even really sure it was worth a damn, if Jorge will let her walk away, and certainly not when she’s waking, gasping and terrified in the night, haunted by her father, haunted by her past, by the memories that still stalk her heels like dogs.

“I think I needed to do that for so long,” she says softly, glancing away from him, out the window at the swirling snow, the late afternoon traffic. “And I’ll get better, you know I will, but that, _that_ will be permanent.”

“Hope so,” he tells her. “Seems like a waste if it isn't.” He doesn't know why he adds that, can't help himself, he’s just still so goddamn angry about what happened, not at Laurel, but at her family, at himself, at the fact that it had to come down to that fight to get free, to Jorge’s fingers pressed like a vice against her windpipe. And at the fact he doesn't even think it will matter.

“It will be,” she says. And the way she says it, well, Frank thinks it must be true. He knows the tells, the hitches in her voice when she’s lying, and when she’s uncertain, and when she doesn't quite believe what she’s saying, and he can sense none of them now, hears nothing but calm, open honesty. He hopes its true, hopes she’s right, but prepares himself for if she’s wrong, if her ultimatum comes back on her, in violence or threats or unexpected late night visitors.

“I know,” he tells her. “I know it will.”

“Do you think your mom’ll mind that her gift’s at home?” Laurel asks then.

“Nah,” Frank says with a hitch of his shoulders. “She expects me to figure out a gift sometime before the Super Bowl. So this’ll be an improvement.”

Laurel laughs, rolls her eyes at him, the last lingering tendrils of tension beginning to ease, dissipate. “I’m trying to be a little more on-time than that, Frank. Especially if I want to be better than Mary.”

“She won't mind,” Frank assures her, thumb running over her knee. “She knows we’re coming straight from the airport.”

“Hope so,” she says as Frank pulls off the highway, pulls into his parents’ neighborhood.

“Nah, we’ll be good,” he tells her. “Especially if we tell her about you asking me to get hitched.”

“Distracting her with the important things,” Laurel chuckles. “Like finally making an honest man outta you.”

“Ma’s got her eye on more grandkids,” Frank reminds her. “I think she’s trying to get herself a full dozen.”

She makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a groan as Frank pulls onto his folks’ street. “Well, she’s halfway there.”

“I expect Donnie’s good for a couple in a year or two,” Frank adds.

“And us?” Laurel asks after a long moment, voice soft, turning to Frank, her teeth moving over the scars on her fingers. He can hear a hesitation in her voice, a nervousness he never expects, no matter how many times he hears it. He knows that his response needs to be perfect, knows that he’s walking on thin, shifting ice, knows that Laurel’s always wary, cagey when it comes to the specifics, the shape of what their life, their joined future will look like. “What do you think we’re good for?”

“However many you want,” he assures her, turning quickly from the road to meet her eyes, trying to speak quietly, slowly, sincerely so he doesn't spook her, doesn't give her any reason to doubt him. “None or a whole half dozen.”

“I think a half dozen’s out,” Laurel says with a snort and a little tentative smile, easy and quick, the fear suddenly gone from her eyes. “But maybe one or two. Someday.”

“Works for me,” Frank tells her, unable to help the wide grin that slips onto his face, the rapid thrumming in his heart, making his stomach tilt wildly as he pulls up to the curb, parks. He takes a long, deep breath, stills his racing mind, his breathing. He has time to worry about this, worry about marriage and kids and their great, unknown future, has years to sort out just what they both want, how they want their joined lives to look. He knows he wants it, but he doesn't have to figure it all out today, doesn't have to figure out exactly what that future will look like; all he knows is that it's terrifying and thrilling and he can't wait to see what it looks like so long as Laurel’s a part of it. 

He catches the crooked grin she sends him as she opens the door, steps out into the freezing air, the still-swirling snow.

"You glad to be home?" he asks as they walk up the steps to his parents' house, her hand clasped in his, fingers curling, stiff and icy and more familiar than his own.

Laurel pauses, stops two steps from the landing. He continues on, turns back when he feels the gentle tug on his wrist. Frank steps down, steps back to her, returning to her always, a question in his glance as he tugs her body close, wrapping his free hand around her waist.

"You're my home," she tells him quickly, surprising vehemence in her voice. "I've never been away."

He kisses her then, fist tangling through her hair, cold lips meeting her colder ones until they spark with warmth, until he chases the lingering chill from her ice-blue eyes, until his ma swings wide the door, laughing, and beckoning at them, urging them in, in, out of the freezing Philly winter, until his brothers crowd the doorway with hoots and wolf whistles, until the cacophony of his sprawling, vibrant family spills out from the house and washes over him, over them, a rising tide of sound and chaos and smells, until they both pull away, grinning and out of breath. 

She’s right, Frank thinks, she’s always been right. She’s been his home since long before he realized she was; she’s the place he longs for when he’s away, the place he knows he’ll always be welcomed, always be safe, _loved_. He shouldn't be surprised that Laurel had it figured out well before he ever began to suspect it; realized that home was not a place but two of them.

"You ready to go in?" he asks, resting his forehead against hers, unable to help the wide spread of his smile as she leans forward, kisses him again, breathlessly, light and quick and full of a promise that stretches on into the endlessly certain uncertainty of the future. 

"Yeah," Laurel tells him, grinning and rolling her eyes at the lingering gawkers in the doorway, keeping her icy fingers twined with his, hip pressed close to Frank's. "Let's go see your family."

“They're your family too,” he tells her, soft and gentle but so, so insistent because he wants so desperately for her to believe him, for her to know how much she is loved, by him, by his family, how happy she makes him, always. He meets her clear blue gaze, open, unflinching, hopes she can see in his eyes how much he means it. “Cause you and me, we’re family.”

She smiles at him, tentative, hesitant, and yeah, a little melancholy, but a smile all the same, lets the smile grow until it lights up her eyes, her whole face, bright and shining. There are snowflakes in her hair, snowflakes on her cheeks, glittering like diamonds, and she’s beautiful and sparkling and Frank’s chest aches with his love for her.

But then she’s tugging on his hand again, tugging him back to the present, back to her. They step forward together, always, and head inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Mountain Goats song of the same name, "a song about the moment in your quest for revenge when you learn to embrace the futility of it."


End file.
